Surviving Santiago (17 page)

“Hi, Mamá,” I begin.

“It's Frankie,” an out-of-breath voice responds.

“How did you get my number?” I don't recall ever giving it to him, and it's not in the Santiago phone book. And why is the Cheaty Courier calling? I squeeze the receiver so it won't slide out of my sweaty palm.

“I wrote it down one time when I came over. The number's on the rotary.”

“Oh.” I try to sound unimpressed. But at least it shows that he liked me once and wanted to hang out with me. Even if he likes someone else more.

“Tina, don't hang up. Listen.”

I let a few seconds of silence pass between us, while I scan the living room for Tía Ileana. Papá's already in bed, but I'm sure she's hiding somewhere, eavesdropping. “Okay,” I finally say. I know I'm acting just like my parents by staying on the phone, but it's going to be a long six weeks in upside-down-land if I don't listen to him.

“I've been trying to call you all weekend.”

“I was out with my aunt.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger, wondering how he's going to explain himself out of this one.

“I'm sorry for what I said to you on Thursday.”

“When you called me a . . .” I can't say the words:
selfish little brat.

“I was mad about getting the parking ticket. And you were right to be jealous. I left you standing in the street while I talked to some other girl.”

“Your girlfriend.”

“We were friends in high school. Honest. I haven't seen her since graduation.”

“How can I believe you?” I pull my finger away, making the corkscrew strand unwind to my natural wave.
I can't think of anything he can say that will make me believe him.

There's silence, then a series of clicks on the line. A bad connection, or maybe Papá's phone is tapped. Frankie speaks up again. “My grandmother just went out of town, and I'm taking care of the apartment for her. I'm free every night. Weekends, too.”

“There's no one else?” I replay the scene in the office building, wondering if I jumped to conclusions without listening to his side—like Papá jumped to conclusions about Mamá. After all, Frankie seemed not to know the office where Sofia worked. I switch the hand holding the phone and wipe my damp palm on my jeans.

“No one.” He pauses. “I mean, I went out with other people in high school. Didn't you?”

“Yes. But it's all over.” Frankie's right. They could have broken up and stayed “just friends.”

“And my uncle gave me his videos and a Nintendo. Have you played
Super Mario Brothers
?”

He can't see my big grin. “I'm the
capo
of
Super Mario Brothers
.”

“Are not.”

“Are, too.”

“I challenge you. Tomorrow at six,” Frankie says.

“It's a deal.”

I hang up and turn around to face my aunt. “Who was that?” she asks.

Hot blood rushes to my face. “Frankie. The boy you met.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The boy you broke up with last week?”

I nod slowly. “We're going to try again. We're getting together to play video games.” I don't mention an empty apartment. “He said Sofia Méndez wasn't his girlfriend. Just a friend from school he hadn't seen in a long time.”

“And you believe him?”

“I guess.”

My aunt frowns, and I wonder if it's because I'm getting back together with him, or bailing on her.

“Boys don't always tell the truth.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Don't let him hurt you.”

T
he apartment is on the fourth floor of a six-story concrete building with no balconies. The elevator is slow, and Frankie and I stand in opposite corners, avoiding each other's eyes. He lights a cigarette, and between us, the elevator fills with smoke. I don't know what to say to him, and I guess he doesn't know what to say to me, either.
Promise you won't go off with someone else
is what I want to say. When the elevator gets to our floor, he drops his cigarette, grinds it out with his foot, and kicks it through the gap into the shaft. He leads me down a dingy hallway with a worn parquet floor.

“Here it is,” he says, unlocking the gray metal door. His key ring has a yellow smiley face.

I step into the living room. When he said the apartment belonged to his grandmother, I expected something old-fashioned with overstuffed sofas and Oriental rugs and a mothball smell—kind of like the house in Las Condes where my
abuelos
live. I'm surprised to see a modern-looking white sofa and love seat—like the living room at Papá and Tía Ileana's house except for no books, a way bigger TV, and a combo cassette and CD player. Fancy electronics, even by my
abuelos'
standards. A beige oval rug covers the middle of the parquet floor. Our living room has a plank floor and no rug—nothing that Papá can trip over.

“So are you going to show me around?” I say.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

He takes me to the kitchen and points out the bathroom. There's another door, closed. “What's that?”

“My grandmother's bedroom. She doesn't want anyone going in there.” He jiggles the locked doorknob. “Paranoid about her jewelry.”

Why would she think her own grandson would steal her jewelry?

We stare at each other. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. I hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans and twist. One of the loops has a loose thread.

A week ago we would have hugged. And kissed.

“
Super Mario Brothers
?” I suggest.

Frankie nods, then smiles. Finally.

“Prepare to lose,” he says.

I massacre Frankie at
Super Mario Bros
. We gringos get so much more practice. He blows me away at
Duck Hunt
, though. And by the end of the first match, we're talking and laughing again like we used to. After we get tired of playing, Frankie leads me into the kitchen. He takes two glasses from a cabinet above the sink and two cans of Coke from the refrigerator. Then he sticks his head into the cabinet under the sink, setting dish detergent, floor polish, and powdered bleach on the tile floor next to his feet. “Here it is. Eyes closed. Both hands out.”

I obey him. He sets what feels like a small plastic bag in my hands. Whatever is inside is lightweight and crunchy.

“Open your eyes.”

I look at the dried, rolled leaves and savor the familiar woody smell. Then I stand on my tiptoes and hug him tight. First hug since
that day
. “Shall we try it?”

He shrugs.
Is that a yes or a no?

“Do you have any papers?” I ask. “I can roll us a . . .” I hesitate, not knowing the word in Spanish. I say it in English. “A
blunt
.”

“Blunt?” he repeats.

I make a rolling gesture, then say, “
Gordo
”—fat—and hold my thumb and index finger to my lips.

“That's what
cuete
is.” He points to the weed in the bag. “This is
macoña
.”

“Oh.”

I'd figured
cuete
was the herb, not the cigarette. But Frankie knew, and he still didn't get it. “Sorry. No papers,” he says. Either he's totally clueless, or he really doesn't want to do this.

“And you probably don't have a bong.”

“Bong?”

Once again I explain.

“I have this.” He ducks under the sink again and comes out with a small packet of white powder. “Cocaine. You put it up your nose with a straw.”

My heart races at the sight of the powder. I've never done coke. Ever. And I can't believe he has. I remember what he said about “Master of Puppets” two weeks ago, how drugs could take over your life, and it made me think how innocent and old-fashioned he is. Has he been lying to me? “How do you know? Have you used?” is all I can say.

“I've watched
Scarface
, like, a dozen times.”

My heart slows to near normal. My thoughts rearrange themselves in straight lines. “And what are you doing with cocaine—in your grandmother's apartment?”

“I thought you wanted it.” He stares at his feet.

“I wanted weed. And some way to smoke it. I don't do hard drugs.”

“You don't? My uncle says . . .” Frankie sets the bag on the counter.

How could he think that someone who smokes weed from time to time would automatically be a cokehead? Talk about jumping to conclusions.

And what does his uncle have to do with this? Could the uncle—the one who likes fancy restaurants—be a drug dealer?

“Can you take it back? Get your money back?” I ask Frankie, my voice hushed even though we're alone in the apartment. If his uncle is the one who got the stuff, I'm sure he'll understand.

“Maybe.”

“Well, try.” I raise the bag of weed to his eye level. “Because this is better than drinking. It doesn't make you puke and it's not addicting. That”—I point to the white powder—“is really dangerous.”

Frankie takes a step backward. “I don't know. Drugs are drugs. Drinking isn't illegal, and look at our fathers.”

I grab his forearm and tug. “
Tranquílate.
You sound like my
abuelito
.”

“I'm not your little old grandfather.” He crushes me in a hug. “But you already said we have no way to smoke it.”

I pat his shoulder. “Brownies, Frankie. Marijuana brownies.”

He has nothing to make brownies with, either. In fact, there is no food in the kitchen at all. His grandmother
must have cleaned out the place before leaving town. It doesn't seem fair—Frankie being a growing boy without much money doing her a favor by watching her place. I check my purse for the allowance my father sets on my desk every Monday morning.

“Is there a supermarket around here?” I check my watch. “And we'd better hurry, because they close soon.”

Frankie hesitates before answering, “Yes, but—”

“You don't want me running into any more ex-girlfriends.”

Frankie grabs his jacket and keys. “Okay, let's go.”

“I'm not an insanely jealous person. Honest,” I say. Well, maybe a little. It comes from being the younger sister of the boy everyone considers the perfect child.

At the supermarket a block and a half from his building we buy a package of brownie mix, the kind where you have to add butter. I add a few other things to the cart before my money runs out—milk, cereal, oranges, ramen noodles, and as a treat, a tube of frozen cookie dough.

On the way back he carries both bags on his shoulders as though trying to hide his face with them—easy enough to do in the pitch-black evening. We get back without anyone he knows seeing him, and I successfully reproduce Petra's brownies. Frankie tastes one, and when nothing happens, he eats another. And another. By the time we finish the batch, we're high for real.

“Your uncle got us some good stuff,” I say, suppressing a giggle. “Thank him for me, okay?”

“It, uh, wasn't him.” From the silly grin on Frankie's face, I know he's lying. I suppose I shouldn't be hanging out with a guy who's related to a drug dealer, but I brush away my worries.

“And I bet he didn't get you that copy of
Romeo y Julieta
, either,” I say.

“Actually, he did. But I gave it back.”

“Why? Did you not like it?”

He puts his arm around my waist. “Because I want you to teach me enough English so I can read the original.”

He kisses me. The room spins. We slow-dance in the kitchen, bumping against the table and chairs and walls. He reaches for my belt.

“No. Not now,” I whisper as I push his hand away. He steps backward and mumbles an apology. I guess being high makes him super horny. And I'm tingling all over, too, but we've never gone this far before and stoned isn't how I want to do it with him. Besides, Papá's words,
she thinks you'll go home pregnant
, run through my mind even though we're supposed to be in our own secret world, like the laws of nature chasing us down no matter where we go.