Before You (3 page)

A
s he pulls away, I can still feel the heat of Diego on my ear, fogging my mind. The tingle it leaves behind electrifies my body. It's only air, but it came from his lungs.
Stop sharing pieces of you
, I wish I could say.

“I have a boyfriend,” I say instead. “But even if I didn't, I wouldn't give you the time of day.”

He laughs. “Oh yeah. Why is that?”

“Because,” I say, standing on tiptoes to reach his ear. “I don't date Mexicans,” I whisper.

It's a total lie. I would date a Mexican if he treated me nicely. True, it might be a little hard to date someone outside of my culture because of the social pressures and expectations on me. But being Mexican is not a reason for me to turn someone down. I only say it to anger Diego, knowing he's Cuban, not Mexican.

“Lucky for you,
princesa
, I'm Cuban,” he says smoothly, seductively.

“I know.” I wink, one eye closing like the shutter of a camera.

A mental picture for later.

I don't know what's gotten into me. Something about this boy excites and aggravates me. Now he falters, realizing I'm not someone to push around. Two can play this game.

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” he says, trying to save face.

I've embarrassed him in front of his
amigos
. Somehow I know I'll pay for it later, but for now I'm enjoying his reaction.

“Doubtful,” I say, and walk away.

Even with my back to him, I know he's watching.

Melissa looks at me, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” I brush her off.

“That was not nothing!”

“Really, it's no big deal. Just some guy who thinks he can intimidate people with flirty arrogance,” I explain.

A smile splits Melissa's face. “Wow,” she says.

“What?”

Melissa looks directly at me, deep in my eyes, matching my every step.

“I'm winning,” she says.

“Winning?” I ask.

“ ‘Flirty arrogance'?” Melissa repeats. “Do you hear yourself? I'm winning Prediction. You like him.”

“Do not.”

“Bye-bye, Jason,” Melissa says in a singsong voice.

“Would you be quiet? Someone might hear you.”

She giggles. “Come on, Faith. I
know
you. Better than you know yourself.”

We're almost at the table. Jason's face is marred by concern.

“Admit it,” Melissa says, finally turning around.

“Everything all right?” Jason asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Was he giving you trouble? Faith, honestly, I don't see why you even bother with the whole international-peer-helper thing. Half the kids end up dropping out anyway,” Jason says.

“I bother,” I say, trying to sound sweet, “because even if it only makes a difference in one person's life, it's worth it.” And I hate it when someone is singled out because of race or ethnicity, but I don't say that to Jason.

Melissa moves closer so only I can hear her next words. “Or maybe it's because of the sexy new guy.”

I blush, rose velvet caressing my skin. The color of shame.

The color of passion.

“Admit it,” she whispers.

No way. I do not like Diego.

You can't fool yourself.

I can try.

To prove it, I bend over Jason and give him a long, intense kiss.

“Mmm,” Jason says as we pull apart. “That's what I'm talking about.”

He kisses me again. Our table watches. I never show this much PDA.

I lean back. Smile. Try to forget about Diego. Jason's brown eyes stare back at me. I wind my arms around his shoulders. Run a finger through his messy blond hair.

Sean, one of the guys at our table, clears his throat. “So, we're all thinking of going to Applebee's tonight. You game?” he asks us.

“Definitely,” Jason says, and then turns to me. “If that's all right with you.”

“Sure,” I answer. Jason always runs stuff by me. I like that he's considerate.

Sean rubs a hand across his day's worth of blond stubble, which matches his short hair, waiting for Melissa's response. Everybody knows that Sean's been obsessed with Melissa since sophomore year. She agrees to come. So do two others.

While they carry on a conversation about dance practice tonight and our upcoming competition, I sneak a look across the lunchroom. I don't know what makes me do it. For some reason, I need to know that Diego sees me.

Maybe it's because I recognize a little of myself in him, or rather, I recognize who I would be if I didn't have to live up to other people's standards. His carelessness sparks something within me, stubborn embers that lately I've tried so hard to smother, to block out. Trying to forget the past.

But it's hard to be someone you're not.

From the other side of the room, Diego grins at me.

One hand is holding his water bottle.

The other is flipping me off.

F
aith Watters is looking at me from across the lunchroom, her stare like cold fingers trying to touch me, to freeze me in the moment, to curl around my heart. Perhaps even break it.

Keep your eyes to yourself
, I mentally say.

Who does she think she is? Blowing me off. And then she has the nerve to walk back to her table and make out with her boyfriend like she's better than everyone else. Fine. She wants a reaction? Here.

I flip her off.

She turns back around. Her body speaks one language; her eyes another.

Can she translate for both?

“Come on, man,” Javier says, diverting my attention. “Don't worry about her.”

“I'm not worried. I just wish she'd mind her own business,” I say.

“She makes this school and everyone in it her business,” Javier replies. “That is never goin' to change. And what are you thinkin', asking her out? She'll sic her
novio
and the rest of the football team on you.”

I cross my arms. “Let her.”

I've been looking for an excuse to fight. I know I shouldn't, but I've had too much on my mind lately. I never expected to leave Cuba. Now I attend a school with overpriced food and girls who think the sun rises and sets on their perfect hair.

Javier changes the subject. “How's your dad?”

“Good,” I say.

His eyes say he wants to ask more but he knows this isn't the place. There's a whisper of knowledge there, knowledge like a virus. If it were to get out, it would contaminate everything.

No one, besides Javier's family and
mi padre
, knows my secret, my days with the cartel. I'm not proud of it, but in Cuba a drug cartel means protection from the streets, protection you can't maintain on your own. A family of sorts, like a viper for a best friend.

I'm not sorry. I lived the life that kept me alive, however dangerous it would one day become. In my hometown, all it takes is one moment, one mistake, and the cost is your life.

Now I live in America, where people can dream about their futures like every day isn't a fight to stay alive.

“
Mi mamá
wants you guys to come over tonight,” Javier says. “She's cookin'.”

I miss Aunt Ria's cooking. My mouth awakens at the thought.

“Can't,” I say. “Have to work.” I eat my overdone burger, thinking it tastes a little like dirt.

“What about Wednesday?” Javier asks.

“Sure.”

Someone drops a tray near me. I snap around, ready to fight. I can't help it. Side effect of years in a cartel. I'm in constant survival mode.

“Just a tray,” Javier says, locking eyes with me.

I can never be too careful. I've had many enemies. Still do.

Luis laughs. “Jumpy 'cause it's your first day, huh?”

Javier and I know that's not why I'm jumpy. Not even close.

“Must be it,” I reply.

I remain on guard until my meal is done. When lunch ends, I walk to fourth period. History. The class is beyond boring. From the first minute, I have a hard time concentrating, my thoughts wandering to someplace else. I'm used to being on the go, constantly on my toes. It's hard to sit still.

People were not meant to be boxed in.

The moment the bell rings, I'm out the door. And wouldn't you know it, Little Miss Faith Watters is waiting for me. I don't understand why she hasn't given up. Doesn't she see that she's not wanted? Her presence is irritating, jute against my skin.

“Still here?” I ask.

Maybe Faith Watters likes to make it known that she's in control at this school by having students follow her around; worse yet, maybe she actually thinks she can make a difference. She must not know that people like me will always be dealt the lesser hand.

I've tried living by the rules. It got me nowhere except dirt poor and starving, begging for work, a vulture happy for scraps.

Without a word, my peer helper turns and cuts through the crowded hallway, leaving a narrow path for me to follow in her wake.

I consider leaving, never coming back to this school, but
mi padre
would kill me. So I reluctantly follow her to my next class, and the one after that, and the one after that.

When school ends, I walk to the city bus stop and catch a bus into town. The rough seat smells like sweat and metal, the threads stretched to the max, like my sanity.

It takes fifteen minutes and three dollars to get to work. In the restaurant, a girl with platinum hair, a green polo shirt, and khaki pants greets me with a huge smile.

“Welcome to—”

I cut her off. “I'm here to see Bennie.”

Bennie is my new boss. He seems pretty cool. So far.

The girl walks away and returns with the manager. Bennie is a young guy, maybe thirty, with brown hair and a goatee.

“Hey, man,” Bennie says with a smile. “Follow me.”

I walk with him to the back of the restaurant, where he digs in his pockets and pulls out a key. Unlocks the office door, waves me in. It smells like dust, and is barely big enough to fit ten people shoulder to shoulder.

It's bigger than my room in Cuba. It's bigger than some people's houses in Cuba.

Bennie shuffles through a box on the ground. “What size do you wear?” he asks.

“Large,” I answer.

He pulls out a shirt with the company logo on the left side.

“Here.”

I put it on. Attached to one of Bennie's ears is an earpiece. He hands me one, as well.

Electronics are a luxury for most.

I can't help my way of thinking. My body abandoned my mind in Cuba. I can't get used to this place. I don't want to get used to this place.

“You'll be bussing tables today. Whenever you finish a table, you press this”—he points to a little red button—“and tell the hostess it's clean so she can seat more people.”

We leave the office and Bennie shows me the proper way to sanitize tables and where things go, like the ketchup and salt and pepper. There's an order to everything.

Since learning how to clean a table doesn't take me long, Bennie leads me to the kitchen. He gives me a tour: the cooler, the break room, the cooking line, the place they call The Box, a small five-by-eight armed metal fence around the back door. It protects the place from being robbed, and the workers sit back there on their smoke breaks.

Next, we move to the prep line, where Bennie shows me how to cut veggies and portion side dishes. He has me work on that until six o'clock, when the restaurant fills with people. My boss hands me a small black tub for the dirty dishes, a towel, and a spray bottle. Tells me to go up front.

I feel ridiculous, and a little like someone's butler, as I clean tables in front of people eating around me.

Back home, I would make double the money and be subject to fewer curious eyes. But that was dirty money. It feels surprisingly good to know that my paycheck will come from honest work.

My eyes are pressed down by the weight of the bright lights that hang above every table, a sliver of electricity for their viewing pleasure.

In between cleaning tables, I go to the back for a drink. Attached to the soda fountain are tiny triangle paper cups that look like they belong on the bottom of an ice-cream cone. I reach for a glass mug but someone stops me.

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” says the blond hostess. She smiles. Steps closer. Wafts me with her cherry perfume.

“Why not?” I ask.

She tilts her head toward Bennie. “Manager's rule. We're only allowed the small ones. They're refillable, though. Saves them money.”

They're worried about mugs when there are a hundred lights, two fryers, two grills, two flattops? And zero consciousness.

I have a hundred emotions, two regrets, two eyes to see zero hope.

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says, grabbing a paper cup for me. “Which one?”

“Coke,” I say.

She fills the cone. Twirls the tip between her fingers. It's the same motion I use when rolling bullets before loading a gun.

“I'm Sabrina.” She smiles. I think maybe she's flirting with me.

“Diego,” I say, taking the cone. The thing holds about one sip.

“Your accent is nice. Where you from, Diego?” Sabrina asks.

“Cuba.”

“Mmm,” she says, smacking her glossed lips together. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to kiss a white girl. I can see down her shirt, which she leaves unbuttoned at the top.

“Sabrina!” Bennie yells across the noise of the kitchen. “If you're in here, who's watching the front?”

“Later,” Sabrina says, and walks away.

A guy in an apron approaches the soda fountain. “Be careful around that one,” he says. He looks my age. Judging by the chef's hat, I guess he's a cook.

“Manuel,” the guy says, sticking out his hand. I do not shake many hands. Mostly, I break them.

“Diego.” I meet his grasp.

“Looks like Sabrina has her eye on you. She has a thing for Latinos, my friend,” Manuel says.

“Familiarity talking?” I ask.

“No. I have a girl. But the other guys say she's fun.”

Sabrina's pretty, but I'm not sure I'm interested.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.

When I hear Sabrina's voice in the earpiece, calling out another dirty table, I make my way to the front.
One restaurant, one job, one breath at a time.

While I'm cleaning the table, someone walks behind me. Bumps me. I drop a dish. It shatters. Loudly.

Everyone is staring. So many eyes. Glued to me. I want to peel them away.

“Oops. I'm so sorry,” someone says.

I turn to the sound of the voice.

No way.

It's Faith Watters.