Cubanita (6 page)

From across the yard, I see Papi, arm around Mom's shoulder, leaning down in his usual consoling position. Great, she's wounded.

“I'll be right back. You'll be okay?” I ask Andrew. He nods, still grinning from ear to ear. I have to find out what's wrong with Mami. As I step away, I see I'll have to squeeze between Uncle Tony and Robi in order to get by. Something's gonna have to rub against him. Boobs or butt?

But then, it happens—the one thing we can honestly say has never happened at a Díaz Fourth of July barbecue.

Robi steps back to let me through, and that's when his sneaker goes
squeak
! Everyone near us gasps in horror, and the rest seems to happen very slowly. He slips off the ground, Key lime pie flying, napkin fluttering, arms waving, plate flipping, shirt billowing…all crashing into the deep end of the pool with a loud, sickening
splash
!

And, of course, all forty pairs of eyes fall on me.

I didn't do it. But there was no convincing Robi of that, so he accepted a change of clothes and went home. The rest of the day sucked after that. Everybody scarfed down Mami's Key lime pie but me. Andrew's mom's was okay. Coach said he'd done enough damage and would call me later.

But I still haven't heard from him, and it's 9:30 at night. So I open Outlook and find another e-mail from Robi.

 

From: Roberto Puertas

To: Isa Díaz

Subject: Nice party, Isa

 

Thanks for the push. Just what I needed after seeing you with that guy. Your brother told me you work with him. Maybe it's not such a good idea to be the
youngest teacher at that camp, huh? Whatever, not like it's any of my business anymore. Have a nice summer.

 

Robi

 

Exactly what does he mean by “not such a good idea”? That Susy and Andrew are too old to be my friends? What would he rather I do, hang out with high school freshmen? Oh yes, that would keep me safely away from harm, now wouldn't it. Why can't he just leave me alone for a while like I asked?

As I'm logging off, Mom comes into my room to drop off a laundry basket. She leans on the doorframe and picks at her nails. “
¿Isa, qué pasó hoy?
”

I swivel around in my desk chair. “What do you mean?”

“Today. What happened? Did you push Robi,
mi hija
?”

Oh, Lord. “You're not serious. You seriously think I would push Robi in the pool, Mami?”

Of course, she answers with a question. “Why are you doing this to him, Isa?”

“Doing what? I'm not doing anything! It's time for me to move on, that's all. If you love Robi so much, rent my room out to him once I'm gone! Jeez.”

Uh-oh, she's going to snap at me, here it comes…

She doesn't. She just stands there, straightening the stack of books on my dresser. “
¿Mi hija, qué te pasa últimamente?
”

I don't believe this. “Mami, nothing is wrong with me lately.
You're the one who's been acting all strange, getting into my business more than usual, and going off crying when Robi says he likes someone else's Key lime pie. What's with that?”

“
Isa, no sabes lo que estás hablando.
”

“Oh, no? Well, maybe if you talked to me more, I would know what I'm talking about. But instead, you just argue, pick fights, and invite my ex-boyfriend over without asking me!”

“Ah, so now he's the ex-boyfrrrien,
cuando hace dos años, no había ni día ni noche sin Robi?”

When did I ever say the world revolved around Robi? “Yes, Mom, it happens, okay? People go their separate ways. I'm sorry you're having such a hard time with it.”

She's quiet again, probably shocked at hearing me talk this way, I think. She would expect this from Carmen but not from me. “¿
Quién era ese niño que vino?
”

“I tried telling you, but you didn't want to hear it. His name's Andrew, like he told you. He's the guy I had coffee with. He's nice; I like him. So I invited him over. What's the big deal?”

“How old is he?”

I don't even know. That should probably be the first question to ask anybody on a date, but we had such a good time, it never occurred to me. “I'm not sure, Mom. I guess around twenty.”

I can tell she's trying real hard to stay out of my business, but she can't. Number one, because she's a mom, and number two, because she's a Cuban mom. If she doesn't pester me to death about my life, they just might revoke her Cuban Mother
License to Drive Daughters Away.

“
Isa, no es buena idea
. Listen to me…he's older than you,
mi vida
, he's in college, things are different for him.
¿Tú me entiendes?
”

“No, I don't understand. What are you saying? That because he's older, I can't handle him? Do I not use my best judgment? Did you not teach me about life properly?”

Why is she staring at me? She's wondering if I've been talking to Carmen. Damn, I really sounded like Carmen just now, didn't I? She has to know what's coming next.

“Don't you trust me?” I ask for the four hundredth time in my life.

She sighs. “
No es eso, hija
.”

“Well, if that's not it, then what is it?”

She doesn't answer. Again. Just spaces out. “
No sé
,” she says finally. “
Hablamos mañana,
I'm tired.”

And she leaves. Just like that. Really weird.

I know that Mom freaked out the summer before Carmen left for college too, so this is probably the same thing. She's scared because I'm leaving and doesn't know how to say it, so she's looking for other reasons to argue. Weird way of saying I love you, please don't leave, isn't it?

 

Monday is a day off, but Andrew ends up calling late at night. My parents are outside talking, which is good, so I don't have to explain such a late phone call.

“Hey, there!” Cheery, cheery.

“Hi, Coach. How are you?”

“Good. Sorry I didn't call last night. I went fishing with Iggy and his dad, and we got back early this morning. Then I slept pretty much all day. Killer hangover.”

Attractive thought. Andrew sleeping off a buzz, like Stefan does sometimes, when Mom thinks he's coming down with something. I guess that's college life for you. I'll be seeing it soon enough, so it's good that I get a preview now. “That's okay. You don't have to explain.”

Why do I care that he didn't call sooner? He's not my boyfriend or anything. “I thought maybe you got scared, after watching me throw my ex into the pool.”

“Oh, that? Nah. That was me actually. I used my super mental powers to trip him, and down he went.”

I crack up, but suddenly feel stupid for doing so. “Andrew?” I ask, my laughter lulling. “You know, I know I haven't asked you this, but how old are you?”

He chuckles softly. “Hmmm, don't know. My real parents left me on someone's doorstep when I was just a baby, so no one knows for sure.”

I giggle some more. By now he probably thinks I'm a fool who laughs at anything, but this
is
nice for a change. Robi never made me laugh. It was always me amusing him.

“Seriously, how old do you think I am?” he asks.

“Um, twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Warm.”

Okay. “Nineteen?” If he graduated at seventeen like I did, I guess he could be starting his third year of coursework and be nineteen.

He laughs. “Nope. Cold.”

Uh-oh. I tug on my earlobe. “How old are you then?”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Twenty-three,
señorita
.”

I'm sorry, but it sounded like he said TWENTY-THREE? What?! No way! That's older than Stefan! The oldest person I ever kissed was Robi! I could've sworn Andrew was no more than twenty. But twenty-three? That's like…like…out of my league. Awesome!

Awesome? Isa! Does he even know how old you are?

“Hello?” His voice seems deeper to me now for some reason. “Anybody there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” I breathe. “Sorry, I just—” My stomach's working those butterflies again. “But you said you were a junior.”

“I am. After my first year my grades weren't all that, too much partying, I guess. So my parents made me go home and work for the money I'd lost them. UM's expensive, you know.”

“I know.” Silence.

“Is something wrong?” He sounds way older now. You know, maybe I'm liking this age thing.

“No, it's just that…well, Andrew, how old do you think
I
am?”

“You just graduated high school, right? So…eighteen?”

Oh, brother. Here we go. I hope I'm not dropping a bomb here. “Seventeen actually.”

“Oh.”

“But my birthday's next month, August twelfth. Look, it doesn't bother me, if it doesn't bother you. I mean, we can
still go out again if you want.”

I hate these painful silences. What's he thinking? Great, I bet now he doesn't want to go out again.
Let's just stay happy coworkers, eh
? Maybe he'll move on to Susy now. But that kiss! So incredible. I definitely want more.

His voice is lower now, sexy. “Are you asking me out?” I can just see that wide smile of his. Oh, Jesus.

“I guess I am.” And using my notes on classic Susy flirting, I add, “Come by my room tomorrow for another art demonstration.”

“Hmmm,” he muses softly. “I'll be there after the bell,
señorita
.”

Remember Iggy's flying niece? Well, Chicken-Chickee's real name is Daisy. She's in my 3:30 class. Pretty good with the oil pastels actually. In the five minutes I've been working with her, the little chatterbox has told me all about
Tío
Iggy, the pretty girl he used to bring to her house, and the older brother she wished she had.

“But I have a fake brother,” she announces.

“Really?” I gotta wrap this up. The kids are getting antsy, and it's almost 4:30. “Look, blend these two and you get the color of the morning sun. See?”

“Oh, cool, Miss Díaz. Well, my fake brother? His name's Andy. Maybe you know him because he's a teacher here too.”

“You mean Coach Andrew?” Her fake brother. That's so cute. “Yeah, I've met him, Daisy. He's real nice.”

“I know. But
Tío
Iggy got mad at him and now they don't
live together anymore.”

Mad at him? “Why did Iggy get mad at him?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don't know.”

“But they're still friends, right?” They must be. They went fishing together last weekend.

“I think so. But Andy? He throws me in the air higher than my dad or my
tío
.”

Hmmm, they got into a fight? Over what? Probably over who gets the shag pad to themselves on which night and all that. Whatever. I'll ask more tomorrow. Only two minutes to the bell, then Andrew's coming. “Yeah, he looks like he could make you fly,” I tell her, and she holds up her pattern for me to behold. “Beautiful! Let's put it up.”

 

It's 4:30 on the dot. I take the kids out in a single file, and they board the buses in time to escape the rain. When I get back to my room, I pretend to be really busy shelving the Cray-Pas. Two minutes later Coach walks in. He leans his equipment bag against the wall.

He closes the door most of the way and tips his baseball cap. “
Hola
. How was your day?” He steps slowly, careful not to knock down the chairs up on the little tables.

“Long.” This is totally true. I've been dying to see him today, dying to know if he'll act the same with me, wondering if we'll kiss again. I pull out my easel from the closet, the one with my painting.

“Same here,” he says, watching me prepare brushes, cloth, mineral spirits. He then sits on a low countertop next
to me. “You're going to work on that some more, I see?”

“Yes, I want to add a beach. This girl's sitting on the sand, looking out, but I still don't know what she wants or what she's thinking. I guess no one'll ever really know.”

“Kind of like the Mona Lisa.”

“Exactly. Like the Mona Lisa.” I smile, happy that he recognizes the mystery behind da Vinci's masterpiece. Most people my age wouldn't know anything about the Mona Lisa.

I focus on my canvas and begin blending the oils on my palette, trying to get the right tone for the sand to complement the dark clouds. Scraping off my brush, I start dabbing the paint onto the canvas. Andrew watches without a word. The real storm clouds outside start rumbling, announcing their daily visit. That's summer in the Everglades for you. And they call this the Sunshine State.

I work the paint in quickly, because I want to finish this section before I leave today. It feels a little strange to have an audience. I almost never paint with someone watching. This is my quiet time. I'm usually alone. Andrew barely moves or breathes. Outside I hear the sound of some kids squealing, as the rain starts to come down. A sweet smell wafts into the room. Perfect rain.

Andrew, maybe sensing my love of stormy afternoons, stands up and moves behind me to get cozier. He leans his chin on my shoulder for a better view. “Is this bothering you? Just tell me.”

“No, it's not,” I hear myself say kind of quickly. It probably
should
bother me…I mean, I'm working here…but it
doesn't. Not in the slightest. It feels nice to have someone genuinely admiring my one real talent.

“Just tell me if I start bugging you.”

He reaches around my waist and links his hands, like we're slow-dancing to the sound of the rain. My stomach starts fluttering again. That's practically zero butterflies in the last two years, and now a whole multitude has visited me these last few weeks. Why am I going so crazy over him?

Weakling. You're a weakling, Isa
.

I probably shouldn't be able to concentrate on this painting with him holding me like this, yet I can. His being here helps me, as I work the oils. The storm outside now pounds the roof. Maybe I should always have him around. Maybe Andrew's my muse.

He turns his face toward me, getting a close look as I paint. He's enjoying this, watching me work—the girl, this beach, these clouds, listening to the downpour outside and the sound of my breathing. And then, oh God, the final touch…he moves his mouth to my neck and kisses me softly. Once. His mouth lingers there, totally and completely teasing me.

Okay,
now
I can't concentrate.

He pulls me closer. I can feel his every contour.
Every
contour. My grip on the paintbrush slips. My hands are sweating. And then, I realize I'm swooning again, like the first time he came in here. The room is sort of swirling, not completely dizzying, but enough for me to forget where I am for a second. My eyes close.

Exactly what kind of special power does he have to make me feel like this? It's not right. I'm leaving soon; we shouldn't be doing this. I have to tell him.

“Andrew?”

Just the rain answers me, and I really don't feel like interrupting again. Maybe I should listen to my brother's wisdom.
Go with the flow. Don't think, Isa, go with the way things feel
.

“Just tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispers into my neck, my cheek, kissing my earlobe. He's so sweet, so damn sweet.

God, this isn't fair! How can I think clearly when he's doing this? My other hand reaches up to his neck, instinctively pulling him closer to me. And before I can think or do anything else, I hear a wooden tap on the floor. My paintbrush, right out of my hand.

This is crazy.

Man
. The word comes out of nowhere. Barely noticeable.
Andrew's not a boy, Isa. He's a man. He expects more
. I know I said I could handle this situation, but with every press of his body against me, with every kiss, I realize this won't end here. It won't even end at second or third base. Maybe not today, but sometime before summer's up, Andrew Corbin will score a home run at Isa Field.

Jeez, I am
so
not in control of this situation! But I don't care. It feels incredible. I always had to be in control with Robi. Andrew makes me want to relax and not think. Just feel. Suddenly I turn around and give in to his kiss, his arms, full force, and only then do I feel Andrew slightly lose control as he leans back against the counter.

Then, the craziest thought enters my head.
Stay, don't go. Michigan's not that great, anyway
.

Before I can reply to my evil inner thought, we hear a loud voice outside the classroom door. It's Susy, shouting “See you tomorrow” to someone down the hall. She pushes my door open, and Andrew lets go of me. He crosses his arms quickly, trying to look like we were just discussing world peace.

But she sees us and stops cold. “Oh…hey…I was just coming to tell you, Isabel…there's an art contest. Forget it, I'll tell you later.” She eyes Andrew. There's a certain look on her face. Hurt? Why? He's never so much as looked her way. Just because she's got it for him? Well, hell, Susy's got it for anybody!

I straighten my shirt. “No, wait, what contest, Suse?”

“Stop by the main house before you leave. It's on the bulletin board. There's a
prize
,” she enunciates, like I don't need any more prizes with Andrew here.

“Thanks. I'll take a look.”

She backs out of the room, glancing at Andrew again before closing the door.

I feel bad, but don't know why. I don't have to feel bad about anything. I know Susy thinks Andrew's hot, but so what? Everyone thinks Andrew's hot.

“What was that all about?” he asks with a heavy sigh.

“I don't know. She's jealous or something.” I pick the paintbrush off the floor and place it in the cup. “She
did
kind of hint she liked you the first day of camp.”

“Well, I guess I didn't notice, did I?” He smiles.

“Whatever. She'll get over it.”

Andrew reaches over and runs his fingers through my bangs, letting the chunks of hair fall slowly to my face. “I gotta go.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Isa? I just want to tell you that I'm really into you.” His intense eyes transform into a puppy dog look. “In case you're wondering what's going on here.” He takes my hand and swings it lightly.

“Okay,” I say brilliantly. Like he even has to say that. His constant attention sort of speaks for itself.

“Seriously. You're talented. I mean, look at this,” he says, gesturing at my painting, “
and
you're gorgeous,
and
you're funny. It never ends.” He resumes his hold on my waist and presses his forehead against mine. “I'd be crazy not to want to go out with you again.”

Right. And I should say something, rather than stand here like a complete wanker. “It doesn't bother me, if it doesn't bother you. I mean, the whole age thing.”

“It doesn't bother me at all. I wasn't even thinking about it.”

And we kiss again, for quite a while. Only this time, I'm sure it won't be the last.