American Gypsy (39 page)

Alison sobbed on the floor, her face angry pink and bloody where my nails scored tracks. “Get that fucking bitch away from me,” she screamed.

Cruz dragged me toward the front door, but all I wanted to do was rip out Alison's tongue by its root. I hoped she knew now that she'd been taunting the wrong Gypsy.

Once on the sidewalk, Cruz firmly led me away from Annie's house.

“My backpack,” I said, wiping my eyes with my shirtsleeves.

“I'll bring it by tomorrow. Come on, I'll take you home.”

I shrugged away. “You're always taking me home. Is that your answer to everything? In case you haven't noticed, I've been known to find my own way. Isn't that amazing, someone so primitive with the ability to follow a sidewalk?”

“Your lip is bleeding.”

“I'm gonna go now.” I started down the street. The energy that had propelled my fury earlier had drained. My legs turned cottony. The left side of my face began to throb and I tasted blood.

“You want to talk?” He was following a few feet behind.

“Can't you leave me alone?”

“That's the question of the day, isn't it?”

When we got to my house, lights behind the curtains suggested that people were up. I felt like shit and probably looked worse; no way was I going through the front door.

“My window should be open,” I said.

The screen came off easily, and I slipped inside. I turned on the closet light, which glowed softly but wasn't bright enough to be seen from under the door. “Come on,” I mouthed, and motioned for Cruz to follow me.

He stood just outside, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I should go.”

I stuck my head out, elbows on the windowsill. If my father heard voices outside my bedroom he'd definitely investigate, so I whispered, “I didn't mean to go off on you like that.”

“Don't worry about it.” He crossed his arms. It was the first indication that I might've truly hurt his feelings this time. When I said those petty things I hadn't given a thought to how callous they must've sounded, that here was a guy who'd been listening to my bullshit for three years now and yet was still standing outside my window.

I reached out and wrapped a hand around his forearm. “Please stay.”

He didn't say anything, but climbed in. The sill was higher on the inside than it looked and he tumbled to the floor. I grabbed him and we both went down, me shushing, him laughing.

A few minutes later we were sitting on the floor face-to-face while Cruz cleaned the blood off my lip. The closet light drew shadows around us. My face throbbed even more than before, and I winced every time he touched it.

“Hold still. Here's something to distract you.”

I felt him press a piece of paper into my hand. “What is it?”

“A surprise,” he said.

I scanned the contents of the wallet-size note, barely making out the scribbles. It read:

To Oaksana

Steve Perry

Journey

“I can't make out the name.”

“It's from Steve Perry. You know, the singer for Journey.”

“Oh my God. How did you get it?”

“Believe it or not, we were having lunch at the same restaurant, and I harassed him until he gave in. But he did misspell your name. Sorry about that. I was going to ask him to rewrite it, but he threatened to call security.”

“Wow, I have Steve Perry's autograph. Did you touch him? Kidding. This is amazing.”

Very gently he felt the puffiness around my lower lip. “I can't believe you jumped Alison like that—not that she didn't deserve it. You're a fierce Gypsy warrior woman.”

He dipped a clean tissue in the glass of water sitting on the floor by the bed.

I followed the motion of his hand. It kept me distracted from the way he sucked in his cheeks in concentration. Our knees touched. It felt like I was being pulled to him by a rubber band stretched tight around us. Did he feel it, too? His fingertips brushed my face as he continued his ministrations, leaving strokes of tingle on my skin.

“Sometimes I wonder why you're still here,” I said.

“You know why.”

“I haven't told my father about us.” I had thought earlier that I had the strength, but then the right time never appeared.

Cruz let his hands fall. “There's nothing to tell, is there?”

If I could've come up with a perfect excuse for my silence, I would have. Anything to erase the hurt from his face. But I didn't think that would be fair. “Before, you asked me to be honest,” I said. “That's what I'm trying to do here.”

“Yeah, I just didn't expect you to be this honest. I thought you'd eventually fall for my animal magnetism.” He grinned for a second, then went back to cleaning. “So what now?”

“I don't know. The logical thing would be to stop seeing each other.”

“Why?” When I shook my head, he took my face in his hands. “What was the first thing you thought when I asked you that? Don't think about it. Just say it.”

“My mother ran away with my father,” I blurted out without thinking at all. It came as naturally as if the words had always hovered above my head, waiting to be acknowledged. “She claims it ruined her life. By listening to her impulses, she left herself behind.”

Cruz let go. The look on his face startled me, as if I were a fortune-teller who'd revealed a secret of his that no one could've possibly known. It compelled me to load the silence with chatter.

“I've been thinking of moving to Vegas after graduation. Maybe take Brandon's advice. College sounds like something I could do.” I didn't tell him that most likely I'd have no choice. My mother would never let me forget our agreement, and besides, someone needed to be there to intercept the liquor bottles.

“Isn't that kind of like running away?” he said, tossing the crumpled, bloody tissue on the floor.

“Don't say that—”

“Come on. Stay here.”

“And do what?”

His shoulders tightened and he pulled away from me as if I'd slapped him. “You can be so fucking cold sometimes.” Rising from the floor, he pulled the window curtain aside. “I'll see you later.”

As always, I'd managed to make a mess of things.

I grabbed him by his shirt. “No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way.”

But he wasn't listening, already halfway out.

“Wait. I love you,” I blurted out so fast that even I wasn't sure how it happened.

“Say that again.”

After climbing back in, he leaned on the windowsill and in a somber tone said, “One more time. I don't think I heard that right.”

And so I stopped searching for fault lines in Cruz's belief in our future together. If nothing else, I thought, I could learn a thing or two from him about trust. And when I said, “I love you,” I meant it. I loved him the way we do before we learn to classify emotions according to our expectations.

One evening while taking a walk down Hollywood Boulevard, we came across a homeless man propped up against the wall of some posh restaurant. He was missing one sneaker, but his clothes, a denim shirt and jeans, were surprisingly clean of the encrusted grime you'd expect on someone roaming the streets. He peered sightlessly into the distance. People passed, some dropping coins on the sidewalk beside him, but Cruz slowed down and then crouched in front of him.

“Hey. You okay, man?” Cruz touched the man's shoulder. “You need help? Some food?”

The stranger's eyes focused and he sat up slightly. “I'm … What day is it?”

Out of the blue, he began to sob, the smell of liquor on his breath like a blow from a shovel. Cruz took him by the elbow and helped him up.

“Come on. It's way too cold out here. My house is just around the corner.”

“Are you sure?” I whispered after Cruz had left the man in his kitchen to grab a towel from the linen closet. “What if he's a serial killer or something?”

“Did you see the ring on his finger?” he said. “He's not homeless.”

Cruz sat across the table from the man, I leaned on the kitchen counter, hands gripping it at my back, and we listened to the man's story, because there wasn't much we could say to make anything better. He'd been drunk for days over the loss of his wife, murdered a year before.

“I don't know what to do next.” Ted rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“When I was eight,” Cruz said, and cleared his throat, “my mom one day left for her sister's house and … she was gone.”

Tears bloomed in my eyes. Cruz's gaze was fixed on the table's smooth surface. “She didn't just leave. The Manaus police aren't interested in what I think.”

I imagined Cruz as a kid, thinking he'd been abandoned until he was told a truth even more terrible.

“I stopped going to school, so Papai sent me here. Before I left, he said, ‘Nothing in this life remains unchanged,
o meu menino
. Not even mountains.'”

We didn't see Ted after that night.

But after the revelation of Cruz's secret—his missing mother—many things about him made sense. The snapshot pinned to his bedroom wall was more proof of his state of mind than anything he could've said. I'd never imagined that his sympathetic nature was born out of something more than a carefree upbringing. Instead, it concealed heartbreak. I called Zhanna that very night.

“How do you always manage to fall for these unfinished boys?” she'd said. “Ruslan and now this … this
Brazilets
.”

“They're not unfinished. What does that mean, anyway?”

“Men without mothers. Their souls are split, unlucky. That's why Ruslan is haunting you still. You're the only woman who loved him.”

I rolled my eyes at the phone. “Come on.”

“
Bez materinskoy lubvy malchiki stanovyatsa slomannimi muzhchinami
(Without a mother's love, boys grow into broken men).”

“We're in control of our reality no matter what our families are like, and Ruslan is in Russia, all the way across the ocean.”

“I told you to get that scarf back,” she said.

The conversation was taking a familiar turn, but this time I didn't try to change the subject or make jokes the way I had done in the past.

“I want you to do something for me,” I said.

“I'm not digging up graves.”

“Can you burn my journal?”

There was a pause, and I waited for her to start cursing in Rromanes the way she did when particularly annoyed.

“Forget the scarf. Burn the book, okay?”

I love my cousin for not seeking an explanation, for not gloating because her crazy ideas might've gotten to me. The burning held meaning in ceremony alone. There was no magic attached to it, but when she called me back some days later to tell me it was done, my room seemed brighter and the colors more solid. My own reflection in the dresser mirror was that of a young woman with fewer shadows in her heart.

*   *   *

With Cruz, for the first time I felt free to remember that trust was as necessary as air. It'd do me good, I finally decided, to try on a bit of happiness. Maybe I was stitching up the tear in my coat, and who knew, maybe I could help Cruz heal, too.

We spent most of the rest of the school year together.

I began to sneak him into my room while my family slept. We broke rules. We were reckless. Cruz brought tapes and books, and bottles of the Yoo-hoo I loved. And I called him a dork for it. We lay on the floor, chilly-hot where our bodies touched. We shared headphones, listened to music, and got drunk on kisses and chocolate.

Cruz kept trying to convince me to tell my family, chastising me for losing my courage.

Turned out I didn't have to, because my father found out for himself.

One February afternoon he woke up early, around five, and walked in on Cruz and me smooching on my bed. He swung the bedroom door against the wall so hard it nearly came off its hinges. Olga peered from around his shoulder, and at the sight of another man's naked chest cried out, “
Nu ty dayosh'
(Well, how about that)!” Cruz had little time to collect himself before my father had him by his hair and me by mine. Olga forcefully nudged him away from us, but nothing could get through to him now.

Roxy, who'd come to visit for a week, ran into the room in the princess pajamas she had on all day, her ponytail skewed to one side.

“Stop, Papa. Stop!” She pulled on Dad's pants, but he didn't even acknowledge her presence.

“
Nu pezdets tebe ublyudok ti yobanniy
(You're fucked, you fucking mongrel)!” He hurled Cruz into the hallway. Before I could run out, he pushed me back into the bedroom and slammed the door in my face.

I scrambled for the window, but before I could climb out, Olga pulled me inside by my hair.

“Let go, Olga.”

Roxy, who was still in the room, forgotten by all, squeezed in between us and yelled, “Leave her alone!”