Cubanita (4 page)

 

CUBA EXPO

Coconut Grove Convention Center

Come and enjoy the sights and sounds of old Cuba!

Reminisce!

August 8–9

 

On the back, the same thing in Spanish.

Cuba Expo. Mom first went to this fair with Stefan and Dad, like, eight years ago, and has been trying to get me to come along ever since. Says I would love it. Lots of Cuban artwork, food, music, and dancing. But hanging out with die-hard
cubiches
(say it like this: coo-
bee
-chess) just isn't what I do with my free time, so I always make some excuse not to go.

I place the flyer in my pocket anyway, to take to Mami. It'll make her day.

 

At 11:00, Andrew pulls his 4Runner into our semicircular driveway. I wonder who paid for the car, him or Daddy. I'm about to thank him and step out, when he jumps out of the car and comes around to open my door. I hope Papi's watching.

“Thank you, sir!”

“
Gracias a usted, señorita
,” he says in a light southern drawl.

“Hey! That was pretty good!
Gracias
for what, though?”

He shuts the door and leads me to our front porch. “For coming out with me. For throwing napkins…”

For showing me your cleavage…

“For a fun-filled evening,” I add.

When we get to the door, I'm all too aware of a presence on the other side of it. Someone of the maternal nature is watching through the peephole. I try to ignore it and focus on Andrew instead. “We did have fun, didn't we? This was kind of unexpected—”

“Unexpected? Gee, thanks. Am I that much of a Frankenstein?”

I imagine Andrew with a big green head, bolts sticking out of his neck, saying things like “Fire…bad.” What's scarier is the thought that he
could
play a monster on film, with those eyes, those eyes, those eyes…
Ay!

“No, I didn't mean the fun was unexpected, I meant this.” I hold up our hands clenched together. “I haven't told you yet, but I'm leaving for Michigan in August, I just broke up with someone, and I promised myself I wouldn't get—”

“Isa?” He smiles, pulling our hands up and moving in closer.

“Hmmm?”

“One day at a time. We just had one date, that's it. It was fun, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was. I'm sorry I'm obsessing.” With my free hand, I tug on my earlobe furiously, but he grabs my fingers and pulls them away with a grin.

Great, he's figured out the effect his eyes have on me, and he's milking it for all it's worth. “It's okay,” he says, lowering his eyes for a moment before looking at me again. “I've been obsessing all night over something too.”

“
You
've been obsessing?” Funny, he's seemed nothing but confident this entire night. “Over what, pray tell?”

He looks at the peephole. Then his hand reaches up to cover it. He leans in and brings his lips close to mine. “Over this.”

I melt into a major-league kiss, soft and warm, but
commanding. Robi wishes he could've kissed like this. And then a thought hits me—I won't be keeping my own promise to stay away from guys this summer.

Nope. I'm a goner.

I hardly saw Andrew the day after our date, except when walking by his field, when he'd tip his baseball cap in my direction, but I haven't stopped thinking about the kiss at my front door. It was different, controlled, like he's used to it. Unlike weakling me.

Mom hasn't mentioned my date anymore since that night, maybe by the grace of God or because my dad's last
déjala
did it. Now it's Saturday, and rather than stir up another windstorm with her, I'm home, helping prepare for tomorrow's big feast—our annual Fourth of July barbecue, which the entire family (all forty of us) feels the need to celebrate at our house. We're the only ones with a pool, so hey! Everybody head over to the Díazes'! They'll cook for us! They'll clean after us! They'll serve us beer!

But a Fourth of July barbecue, Cuban-style, is not what you
might think. Burgers and hot dogs? Hell no! What you want is a massive pig, roasted in a hole in the ground. Coleslaw? Corn on the cob? Nope.
Bocaditos, croquetas,
and
chicharrones
. Vanilla Coke? Wrong again. Why drink that crap when you can have an ice-cold Malta Hatuey?

And the two best parts of all this? One, that my parents don't know I invited Andrew, and two, that he's bringing a Key lime pie to rival my mom's.

“
Isa, córtame los limones, por favor.”
Mami hands me the local, small limes for her reigning winner of all pies. I grab a knife and start slicing them in half. Any moment now I'm going to hear the other side of the Key lime story—the Cuban side.

“Did you know…” she begins, gently pressing the graham cracker mixture into the pie mold. “That these
limones
were not called
Kee line
in Cuba?”

I don't answer her. I don't answer because she's not really talking to me. She's talking to an invisible interviewer who has approached her for critical information about Cuba's produce.

Under the faucet she washes her hands free of cracker crumbs. It's interesting that she can wave her hands wildly when she talks and still be able to wash them. “You see, in Cuba, these
limones
were not special
Kee line limones
, they were just plain
limones
. We use them for cooking, for marinating…”

Sigh. For making
limonada…

“For making
limonada
,” she adds. “They grew every
where, in everybody's backyards. But here, everybody makes
sush
a big deal about them, like they're so special.”

“They are special, Mami. The regular limes here are the big green ones. These are super bitter.”

“And that's the other thing. In Cuba, this
Kee line
was not considered a
line
. It was a
limón
.”

As fascinating as I really do find this, I keep quiet, or she'll go on about the way things used to be back you-know-where. And if I hear my mom say
Kee line
one more time, I'm going to leave the juicing to her and go watch my brother work on his hair.

At the other end of the house, I hear a blow dryer. Odd, considering the only two women in the house are in the kitchen. And my dad doesn't have hair. So that only leaves Wonder Boy.

Mami reaches past me to open the pantry, stopping momentarily to caress my shoulder. “
¿Eh, Isa?
”

“
¿Sí, Mami?
”

“I saw the
papelito
you put on the refrigerator.”

“The Cuba Expo? Yeah, I put it there for you the other night.”

“
¿Sí?
I hadn't noticed it.
Gracias por traérmelo
. Maybe you can come with us this time.”

“Yeah, maybe. That'd be fun.” Don't hold your breath.

A silence falls between us. “
¿Mi vida?”

“Yes, Mom?”

“Eh…se me olvido decirte que Robi llamó esta mañana.”

“What?” I blurt, nearly slicing off my finger in the process.
“Robi called me this morning? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because you were sleeping.”

“What did he say?” We agreed not to speak for a while, or at least until I called him. First the e-mail, and now this. I said I needed time off, stubborn fool.

“
Nada
.” She shrugs.

“
¿Nada?
Robi called to say
nada
? So he just stayed quiet on the line?”

She runs two cans of sweetened condensed milk under the can opener, then pulls the eggs out of a bowl of warm water. “
Mi vida
, he didn't call you. He called me. We talked about
esto, lo otro.
He just wanted to say hi.”

This and that. Somehow I find it hard to believe Robi called to discuss this and that without an ulterior motive. He just wanted to see if I was home, picking my nose and thinking of him. And calling my mom, not me? I don't know what he's trying to do, but if he thinks for one minute that'll make a difference in getting back together—

“I told him to come tomorrow,” she announces with the crack of an egg.

In my mind I hear a loud metal
pang!
and a scene flashes before me. Of Robi and Andrew, each outfitted with boxing trunks and gloves, dancing around each other, jabbing. Andrew with a split eyebrow. Robi, a bloody nose. Hanging on to the lower rope of the ring from the floor, I'm shouting, “Boys! Boys! Stop it! Please!”

I put my gaping mouth to good use. “Tell me you're kidding.”

“
¿Por qué?
” She uses her hand to speak but forgets that she's holding a spatula. Drops of sweetened condensed milk go spattering against the cabinets.

“What do you mean why? Why? Because you have no business inviting Robi here tomorrow!”

“
Ay
, Isa, please. Robi's been coming to our house
para el cuatro de julio hace dos años
.”

“Hello? Earth to Mom? Robi and I broke up! He's come to our barbecue the last two years because we were to-ge-ther. Robi and I are now broken up. Watch…” I mercifully put down the knife, then make an open and closed motion with my hands. “Broken up…together…broken up…together. Broken up! Got it?”

My mother gives me that look. The one that suggests
You're being silly, you're overreacting. You're not really broken up with Robi, you're only imagining it
. “Isa, he may not even come. He said he'd try. I only did it to be nice,
hija
. He was nice to you. You can't just
dees-card
someone like that.”

You know…I've always considered myself a sane person, one who's managed to handle my Cuban nutjob mother with grace, but enough is enough. This last month has completely done her in. Why is she so out-of-whack? What am I going to do? I already invited Andrew!

“Mami,” I say calmly, amazing myself, “I know exactly what you're doing. You invited Robi so that I wouldn't even
think
of inviting Andrew.”

“Who?”

“My fellow
teasher
?”

“Oh.”

“But you're too late. I already did. I invited both him and Susy, so if there's a showdown here tomorrow, you're the one who's going to deal with it, not me, okay? I gotta pee.” Total lie; I just have to get out of here. It's that suffocation thing again.

“
Mi vida
…”

Mi vida
, my ass.

 

Outside, my father shovels, then wipes his brow. He's taking a moment's rest from digging the pit for tomorrow's
lechón
. His tank undershirt is soaked with sweat, and his hands are covered with dirt. Despite all this, he's digging in nice pants and dress socks. A sight to behold.

“Papi, you have
got
to do something about that woman.”

He circles the pit, looking for a new spot to unearth. “What's there to do?
That woman
is fine the way she is.”

“And I thought you were the reasonable one.”

He laughs in a way I've loved since as long as I can remember—airily, but with a hint of wheezing. “What happened, Isa?”

“She invited Robi to come tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So I invited Andrew to come tomorrow too.”

He thinks about this for a moment. “So? She didn't know that.”

“Dad? She has no business inviting Robi at all! What is she trying to do?” A mosquito bites my ankle, so I slap
it to a premature death.

“I'm sure she's not trying to do anything, Isa. What do you want? For her to drop that boy like a hot potato just because you did?”

I cross my arms. Another mosquito whirs a high-pitched battle cry near my ear.

“Didn't you bring Robi around here and ask everybody to accept him as your boyfriend?” He jabs the shovel into the ground and brings up a good chunk of soil. “Now you want us to forget him just like that? She's not doing it to upset you, Isa. It's just that it'll take her a little longer than it took you.”

“I don't believe this.” I turn and head back to the house. Both the mosquitoes and my dad are killing me.

“
¿Hija?
”

“
¿Padre?
”

“I know it's frustrating, but try to be more patient with your mother. Please?”

There's something in his face. I don't know what it is. Then, a soft look, the one he saves for his girls. Only his girls. I can't possibly say no to him. “I'll try, Papi. For you.”

He blows his kiss, then goes back to digging the pit o' death.

 

What the heck, I'll give it a shot. I'll ask my brother for his two cents on the situation. To locate Stefan, I follow the bass sound of old school Power 96 music.

Din…din…din-di-ri-din-din…

See? He's in his room. Even though he keeps his door
unlocked, I knock. I really don't want to risk seeing him naked, or worse, blow-drying his hair like a girl.

Freestyle's kickin' in the house tonight…move your body from left to right…

Stefan actually thinks this music is classic. In reality, that electronic voice stopped sounding futuristic in, like, the year I was born. “Stefan?”

A fully clothed, ready-to-hit-the-town Stefan pulls the door open, smiles, and walks back to his mirror. As if this couldn't get worse, he starts singing.

“Excuse me, loser?” His bed is immaculately made, rows of shoes in the closet, bottles of cologne samples lined up on his dresser, all exposing Stefan's organization mania. “Señor Martha Stewart?”

He sways to the beat, which is actually pretty funky if you can get past the silly words.

“Baboon? Uh…I know I'm interrupting your important pre-party grooming ritual, but I need some advice. Hel-lo?”

But Stefan's in a semitrance. He hears me, judging from his nod, but his response is more physical than intellectual. If my brother knows anything, it's physical. I
must
get him one of those disco balls for Christmas.

He turns around to demonstrate exactly what I should do about my situation, even though I haven't even told him what it is yet. Party! Dance! He waves his arms in the air, sinks low to the floor, and bites his lower lip. No words necessary.
Just go with the flow,
his hips tell me.

“Both Robi and this guy I went out with are coming tomor
row!” I shout above the boom. “Plus, Mom's all in my business! Do you have any words of wisdom for me, DJ Díaz?”

DJ Díaz doesn't know wisdom. He knows body movement. He boogies over to me, pulls me by the waist, and invites me to dance. The music is unrelenting. Hey, it's actually a pretty good beat.

“To all you freaks, don't stop the rock…” I hear the words somehow flow from my mouth, as well as from Stefan's. How the hell did that happen? We're singing! Oh, God, we're both singing! “That's Freestyle speakin' and you know I'm right!”

We bounce. We sway. We sing. This is fun! How did I know those lyrics? Years of old school filtering into my subconscious, that's how. Osmosis through bedroom walls. We bounce and sway some more. My hair's swinging, tickling the back of my arms. We're laughing. Stefan and I, laughing, dancing, like little kids again, practicing for the show we're going to put on for Mami and Papi in the living room.

What did I come in here for? I forgot already. Oh, yeah. My problem. Stefan's not helping, is he? Well, hold up, maybe he is. I mean, my brother may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he
is
saying something with this.
So you got two boyfriends coming tomorrow? And the problem is?

Yeah, really. Two guys both coming here for me. A face-off. One will get on Mom's good side. One dares to bring a Key lime pie made by another.

Are these lyrics actually starting to make sense?

There's a party in the house and we'll be rockin' tonight…