Down to the Bone (16 page)

Tazer wraps his arms around me for a powerful hug. He fixes his suspenders and punches Soli in the shoulder. “She’s slamming cute.”

I stare at him. He looks stylish with baggy dark brown pants, a tight chocolate-colored shirt, and brown and white two-tone fifties-style shoes. I can’t take my eyes off his suspenders.

Tazer talks about how he’s excited that his dad hired Marco again to do more landscaping. “Marco came over last week for another estimate. We’ll be able to see each other every day for a few weeks, Shai.” The conversation spins around to the club. “I love this place; it’s got the best music in town. And lots of hot babes, too.”

Diego beams. “I’m one of the part-time DJ’s and hold Poetry Night here on Tuesdays at eight. Come check us out.”

“Definitely.” I stare at Tazer’s pinstriped bangs as they talk about music, lyrics, poems and scripts. The lines are turning blurry on me.

Tazer snaps his fingers in front of my face. “You look weird. What’s up?”

Soli explains, “Some
i
gnorant I work with let his friend put an X or two in her lemonade without telling us about it first.” The sides of her mouth droop. “She’s really stoned out of her mind.”

“No way I’m stoned!” I trumpet and everyone’s eyes zoom in on me.

“Where’s the guy?” Tazer barks.

“Forget it,” Diego scolds. “Pick a fight here, and your ass’ll be in the slammer.”

“I’m not a fighter. I was just going to put him straight.”

“Come on.” I grab Tazer’s hand. “Let’s dance!” I pull him with me to the dance floor.

Tazer undulates around me with fists in the air. He’s a creative dancer with slick body moves. I dare him with elaborate upper body movements. He follows with feet shuffling.

I grab his arm. “Let’s go to the ocean,
now
.” I feel all sparkly inside. Feels damn gooooood to not have to worry about fears or my mom’s homophobia!

“Now?”

“Yeah, so we can swim with the sharks.” I trip over someone and almost fall.

Tazer picks me up in his strong arms and carries me to our table. I hold on to him by his neck as he sits. I end up on his lap. Out of nowhere, tears pour out of me and I can’t hold them back.

“What’s wrong?”

“The Betrayer . . . my ex, Mar . . . Mar . . . Mario, the love of my life. The Betrayer is getting married today.” I’m wetting his neck with my tears.

“I’m so sorry, Shai. It’ll be okay.” He gently caresses my hair.

“Help me forget, please . . .”

He holds me tightly and out of nowhere, his touch makes me quiver all over, as if every cell of my body is exploding.

“I promise. I will. I’ll help you, Shai. Don’t worry.”

Soli and Diego come back and see me curled up on Tazer’s lap.

“She’ll be fine,” Soli says. “The X will wear off soon. She’s just getting over someone.”

“Betrayer. Betrayer . . .” I repeat.

“She needs to get out of this loud smoky place,” Tazer insists. “I’m driving her home.”

He helps me stand up. Soli takes me by one arm and Tazer by the other. Diego walks next to us, reciting a poem supposed to make me feel better: “Livin’ in Shakespeare’s fool paradise, a state of happiness based on false hope . . .”

I kiss Soli’s shoulder. “You’re my best friend. I love you more than all the leaves in the world and all the grains of sand.”

She pushes my hair back away from my forehead. “Me too, Shyly. You’ll be all right.”

Tazer kisses Soli and shakes Diego’s hand goodbye and they go back into the club.

My stomach feels as if I swallowed a puddle of slime. Rick is having sex with Marlena now. He’s touching all the sacred places that used to belong only to me. She used to say we’d be together forever. “Forever is such a lie,” I say out loud.

I plop in the passenger seat and just when Tazer starts the engine, I throw my head out the window and puke chunks of dinner. “I miss my little bro. Take me to see Pedri. Take me now.”

“It’s too late, Shai.” He gets a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes my mouth. He reaches for his shoulder bag and plucks a bottle of water and makes me drink it all.

I guzzle it down and feel better.

We’re driving back. The buzz buzzing in my ears sounds like angry wasps. I slide off the ring Betrayer gave me that I haven’t been able to let go of, and throw it out the window as far as I possibly can. “Screw you!” I yell into the balmy night, remembering that Marlena probably already said, “I do,” to Rick the Dick.

12—Act Natural!

Yesterday was brutal. Today I had to work at Tazer’s three-story villa again and act happy. Marco left for the week to go to Betrayer’s wedding.

The morning was in my face like slime and I couldn’t wipe it off. I started the day in a sweaty daze, ready to dig holes and stick plants inside, as hard and as fast as I could. And I did. I focused so intensely I barely spoke a word to anyone, except to Tazer for a minute during our break. He had to leave and couldn’t stay talking.

I’m beginning to understand people who steal. I bet they’re feeling frail and alone. They’ve had folks they’ve deeply loved and trusted turn their backs on them over and over again. They’ll do anything to fill up the black hole inside them that keeps getting bigger with every betrayal.

I hope I don’t become a jaded thief.

Luckily, I’ve promised to make myself feel better by trying to concentrate only on the good.

All day I’ve been melancholy and only focusing on my losses. It’s not as if I didn’t have a happy childhood with parents who adored me. Maybe I should start bringing forth those memories to keep my mind occupied.

Last night, I forced myself to think funny things to avoid sobbing myself to sleep. Like when the only gringo family in our entire community moved next door to us from a small town in Ohio. Just for fun, I taught them wrong Spanish. I translated English sentences with common, funny, Cuban bad words. Instead of “Good morning, how are you today?” they naively learned to say, “My butt itches bad,” and silly things of that nature. Mami thought it was hilarious. Instead of making me apologize, she texted and e-mailed all her friends about it. She loved me once. She really did.

I need to remember to keep going to the great times in my life because they somehow soothe me. Sometimes, they make me sadder though, and have me missing my family even more. But it’s good to recall that you were once loved.

Now, I dash indoors from work, vigorously pet Neruda and give her tons of smooches. “Skooti-Bootie, I’ve missed you
so
much!” She slobbers all over my face. Her tail swings fast as a windshield wiper, making her whole backside twist from side to side.

Viva runs behind me with a mop in hand.
“¡Dios mío! ¡Ave María!
Take off the muddy shoes!” I hand them to her and walk around with socks. “I is gonna give Neruda a bath. Then,” she insists, “I will boil your shoes.”

I walk into the bathroom, peel off my grimy clothes, throw them on the floor, and jump in the shower. “Okay!” I yell to her. “Boil my shoes, add ketchup to them and we’ll have ’em for dinner. What the heck, we only live once!”

She lets out a sweet, musical laugh.

“Soli no cook today. She go to a boy’s crib after work,” she states from outside the bathroom door.

“Crib?” I laugh to myself. She picked up the lingo Soli and I sometimes use for fun.

She goes on. “All Soli Luna thinks about is boys, boys, boys!”

If Viva
really
knew the truth about Soli’s crushes on guys, and how she’s dated all of Miami, she’d have a coronary and croak. Back in Viva’s time, seeing more than one boy at a time meant you were a ho, especially when men like Viva’s grandfather, nicknamed Casanova, was famous for having a roving eye. Viva won’t even go out with another man just so she’ll keep the memory of her dead hubby alive. Soli is the modern day Casanova, and obviously inherited her sexiness from her favorite great-grandfather’s genes (
que en pas descanse
/may he rest in peace).

“Don’t worry! I’ll cook!” I boom from a stream of water pouring over me.

I learned to cook from my mom. When I was a kid she allowed me to help her in the kitchen.

Mami would poke the stewed chicken (or whatever she was making) with her index finger and lick it to check if it was done. She’d go from picking veggies in the fridge, to the range, to checking pots and pans. She let me taste everything with a spoon and asked what the concoction needed. “Do you think we should add more salt and oregano,” she’d say. After learning all the spices, I’d come out with incredible suggestions, things like, “Add cinnamon and ginger to the meat, Mami. That’ll make it yummier.” She’d go with whatever I said. In the end, the meals were a success, and she’d rave to my family and neighbors about my cooking. She made me feel so proud and accomplished.

Memories of her slicing onions every night, singing to a salsa CD and twirling me around while the food was simmering make me more confused. I want to stick to the positive, but, suddenly, everything has me missing her. If she loved me that much as a child, how could the one wrong thing I did have changed her opinion of me? I don’t want to think about my mom any more. I’m determined to push all thoughts of her away. I’ll focus on Viva, who makes me happier.

Viva’s the only Cuban mother on this planet who doesn’t even know how to boil milk. She burns toast, and even adds salt when what is needed is sugar. She’s a total wacked-out differently-abled “chef.”

I bathe and dress in tight button-down hip-hugger jeans, a thick brown belt, and a short, chartreuse, silky Brazilian top Viva ironed and hung for me on the towel rack. After getting so cruddy at work, I love to scrub till I’m squeaky clean, then dress nice, even if I’m just staying home. I’ve told her dozens of times not to iron my clothes, though. I hate it! But she doesn’t give three cracked coconuts.

Viva’s by her seven-foot statue of
La Virgencita María
lighting candles and praying, as I sauté onions and green peppers in olive oil. When they get soft, I add sliced carrots, cubed potatoes, salt, oregano, and cumin. I stir fry everything ten minutes then pour in a can of organic garbanzo beans and one of tomato paste. I throw in a few cloves of crushed garlic, and a handful of olives and raisins. The pot gets covered with a tight lid to cook while the white rice bakes.

I learned a great deal of tricks from helping Mami. Luckily, now it comes easy to me and I
love
it.

“
Boong-caboong-boong-bang
!” Soli’s pounding on the front door gives us a jolt.

“Use your keys, nut case! We’re not going to open!”

Neruda flies to the door and slides smack into it. Soli leaps into the living room like a wild panther in heat, smelling slightly of perfume. “Yuk!” I hold my nose. “You’re a stink bomb!” I go around opening the windows. Then, I make her wash behind her neck and ears.

“Mima, Shyly, I’m in
love
, totally
enamorada
!” Soli dances around, flapping her arms, imitating a chicken, in her skintight miniskirt under a guy’s white shirt. My pup howls and hops around like a bunny rabbit, wild with happiness. “I’ve fallen in love with Diego!” She lifts Nerudi’s two front legs and twirls her around. Soli goes a little nutty once a month around the time of her period, which I call the PM Double S: Psycho Maniac Soli Syndrome.

I dice a tomato and throw it over the food, squeeze a lemon over everything, then pour a teaspoon of the juice the green olives are packed in, and stir. “Yes, Hootchi Momma. You’re in love, ice no longer melts, and your butt’s gone flat.”

I serve the three of us. Viva brings three glasses of
jugo de melocotón
to the table, and a sliced-up avocado and onion salad. She and I sit to eat.

Soli sticks her plate in the fridge. “I’m going out to dinner. I’ll save it for later.”

“Soli, you no cook or eat with us no more. Please, Soli Luna, sit and eat with us, like a family.”

“Listen to your mom, creep head. She just came home from cleaning
four
houses.” Viva hardly ever scolds her. She pretty much has no control over Soli, but she tries. “When your mother talks to you it’s as if she’s talking to a Cheez Doodle. You don’t give a flying banana.”

Soli picks at some garbanzo beans from the pan, sticks them in her mouth, and licks her fingers clean. “Mmmm . . . I don’t have time to cook, Mima. Shyly cooks delicious.” She washes her hands in the sink and wipes them dry on her skirt.

“Shylita works too. She clean up, organize, cook and she help me with everyting.”

I shoot Soli a steely look, which means,
You could at
least
fake your mom out
. Soli always knows what I’m thinking and vice versa. No need to talk.

She pinches Viva’s cheek. “Okay, okay, Mima. Chill. I promise to cook more often.” She winks at me from behind Viva. I throw her a smile as I stuff my face.

“Shylypop, I’m serious,” she goes on, all bright-eyed. “I’m really in love with Diego.”

I take a few tablespoons of rice, throw it in the pan, and stir it around in order to suck up every drop of
salsita.
I pile it back on my plate and gobble up some more. “Right, and I’m a celibate priest wearing nothing but a thong in outer space visiting alien sex fiends for an orgy.”

Soli lets out an ear-splitting laugh.

Viva noisily scrapes sticky sauce from the pan and shoves a spoonful into her mouth.
“¡Qué rrrico
, Shylita!”

I love when people like my food. It makes me feel like they love me tons.

Soli opens the fridge and finds a leftover chicken drumstick from Pollo Tropical. “Hey, Organic Celibate Nun, I redid Tazer’s bangs in blue, blond, black and red streaks, just a few minutes ago.”

“Why not give him ammonia to drink? That might make his skin grow vivid patches and leak in bright colors to match his gorgeous hair.”

Soli chuckles. She tackles the tough chicken fat between her front teeth and pulls at it with her thumb and index finger. “Tazer was my last appointment. He’s so incredible. We’re meeting at Cha-Cha’s at seven thirty tonight; it’s a gay Cuban organic veggie restaurant that just opened. Can you be
lieve
it?” She throws the drumstick back into the fridge and takes the fork from my hand. “Stop gorging! You’re coming with us.”