Surviving Santiago (7 page)

“Is Tina short for Cristina?”

“Yes.” I've never known a Tina who wasn't Cristina, but I guess they do exist.

“I haven't seen you around, Cristina Aguilar. Did you just get here?”

I let his deep voice echo in my head. Everything about this Frankie says
older, more mature
. I rub my forearms, where the plastic handles have left unsightly red
dents. “I'm visiting my father. I live with my mother in the United States.”

Frankie's eyes get a faraway look. “The United States of America. That's my dream. Can I go back with you?”

My mouth gapes. “I just met you!”

“Okay, see ya,” he says in accented English while pretending to hand back the groceries. “I find the American girl to marry with me.”

I laugh. He winks at me. I don't tell him I have permanent residency but won't get my U.S. citizenship until I turn eighteen. Instead, I say in Spanish, “How about we get to know each other first?”

“A deal.” Still gripping the bags, he pushes the door of the record store open, holds it with his foot, and follows me inside.

I flip through the first bin of cassettes, labeled
ROCK CHILENO
, but recognize none of the groups. “Oh, you don't want those,” Frankie says.

“Why not?”

“They're no good.”

He nods toward a bin labeled
ROCK INTERNACIONAL
. I spot the huge section devoted to Metallica—not only
. . . And Justice for All
,
Master of Puppets
, and their other releases, but also scuffed cassette boxes with crude black-and-white artwork and some variant of the title
en vivo
. I paw through them, looking for my favorite songs.

“They sell bootleg Metallica here,” Frankie says. He
sets down one of the bags and picks up a cassette that reads
Metallica, en vivo, Osaka, 8/88
, the title printed over a dark, blurry photo of the band. “This is a concert they played in Japan last year.
La raja.
”

I take the cassette from him. I'm disappointed he can't recommend any local bands, but Metallica is definitely on my top-ten list. I can't believe I've traveled to the opposite end of the world and found someone—a fine-looking guy, too—who likes the exact same music I do.

“Have you heard them live?” Frankie asks.

“Last November. With some friends from school.”

“Was it the most incredible experience of your life?” That gap-tooth smile again.

“Yeah, it was cool.” I repeat his word for “the coolest”—
la raja
. Then I think of the other kids from school at the Metallica concert with me—Petra, her boyfriend, and Max. Even after I broke up with Max last fall, we've stayed really good friends. Max is nowhere near as cute as Frankie—more like a little kid compared to him.

Frankie edges closer to me. “They're never going to come here. No good bands ever do,” he says.

“Maybe now that there's . . .” I catch myself before saying “democracy,” remembering my mother and brother's warning about political discussions with strangers. “I guess it's too far away.”

I pay for the cassette. Frankie offers me a ride home. I think about it for a half second. Hot guy. Motorcycle.
Long walk. Heavy bags. Dusk. He arranges the bags in the plastic crate, wedging them in place with a rolled-up orange jacket. Definitely the kid I saw before. I climb onto the seat, and when he hops on in front of me, Frankie squeezes me into the space between him and the crate. He hands back his helmet for me to put on.

“What about you?” I ask.

He knocks the top of his head. “Hard as a rock.”

The helmet is big for me and smells like boy sweat and hair gel. Its heaviness strains my neck. I tighten the strap and wrap my arms around Frankie's waist. He's solid underneath the leather jacket—all muscles, no flab or bones. I think about when I hugged my father around the waist earlier this week, feeling his ribs and the places where his ribs had been broken and hadn't healed quite right.

I like holding on to something that's solid and not broken.

Frankie guns the engine, and we speed off. The chilly, damp wind whips my hair against my neck and the chin strap. I shout my address to him.

He pulls up in front of my father's house and cuts the engine. “Nice place,” he says. He kicks the stand in place, slides off the seat, and holds out a hand to help me off.

I unstrap the helmet and hand it to him. “Do you live around here?”

Frankie starts to shake his head then quickly says, “Yes. No. My grandmother lives in one of the apartment buildings near here, and I sometimes stay with her.”

I did see him in the middle of the day—twice. Maybe he's one of those vocational education kids who only takes classes in the morning. “Are you in school?” I ask.

“No, I graduated last year. I'm working to earn money before I go into the army in September.” Frankie taps the crate with his helmet. “I deliver things.”

I swallow and almost choke. “The army? Are you into the military?”

He laughs. “It's required here. When you turn eighteen.” Frankie switches to English. “I hope go to university of United States after.”

My sigh of relief is way too audible. “You speak well, Frankie.”

“I need . . .
practicar
.”

“Maybe I can help you practice.” I smile at the prospect of seeing this Metallica-loving Chilean hunk again. And having someone around my age to talk to at night.

“Tomorrow night. Eight thirty.”

“Perfecto.”
I flash him a wide-open grin. “See you tomorrow.”

I expect Frankie to ride off, but he says, “I'll wait while you ask your father.”

“No, it's fine.”

“You live with him, don't you?” Frankie squints as if confused.

“Yes. But I don't need his permission.”

Before putting on his helmet, Frankie shakes his head. At home, we make plans without our parents all the time. With half my friends, the parents aren't even there.

Like Papá.

Papá doesn't come home for supper, and my aunt doesn't know where he is. But after we eat, I get the idea to practice teaching English, with his parrot as my student. I assume parrots can learn to speak any language.

I carry Pablo into the kitchen on my finger. Inside, the greenish-gray bird seems bigger than he did in the garden. Pablo's almost as long as my outstretched arm, though most of that length is tail.

The moment I set Pablo down, he fluffs his tail and takes a dump on the counter. Tía Ileana yells at me. She hasn't yelled at me since I got here, but I guess I'd yell too if a bird pooped where I sort of cooked.

“
¡Pégame un tiro ya!
” Pablo screams back.

“It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you,” I murmur, stroking his head.

He keeps screeching, “Just shoot me,” in Spanish. The poor thing's previous owner must have seriously abused him.

A frowning Tía Ileana hands me a wet towel and powdered bleach to wipe up the mess. Afterward, I cover
the counter with newspaper. I take a package of salted crackers from one of the cabinets.

When the parrot quiets, I say, “Hello. How are you?”

“
¡Alfonso, conch'e tu madre!
” the parrot squawks at me.

I don't reward him for calling someone named Alfonso his mother's private parts. Instead, I repeat, “Hello. How are you?”

This time, the bird squawks, “
Vamos, pajero dormilón.
”

Laughing, I say, “I did get my lazy ass out of bed.” I'm surprised Graciela hasn't brought Pablo to me, since I've slept until noon every day since I got here.

An hour later, I've discovered that Pablo also knows his name and about a half-dozen other swear words. But he still doesn't speak a word of English.

When Papá comes home, he stumbles into the kitchen, whacking his left shoulder on the doorframe. Pablo flaps his one good wing and makes tutting noises with his gray beak.

“Yeah, get me a beer,” Papá says. He backs out of the kitchen into the dining area and falls into a chair. Pablo and I stare at each other.

I lift the bird onto my finger. “I'm going outside,” I announce. My father can get his own beer. I'm not supposed to be around him when he's drinking anyway.

“Pablo tell you my secrets?” Papá asks as he lights the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Yes. Who's Alfonso?”

“The bird torturer I took him from. The one who
broke his wing.” Papá takes a puff and coughs. “I taught Pablo to express his anger in words.”

When I return from putting Pablo in the cage, I see Tía Ileana with my father and two bottles of Cristal beer—his and hers—with their now familiar yellow-and-green labels. Papá tells her that he's covering the weekend News Director's shift tomorrow and Sunday and needs to be up early. If he's working tomorrow, this will be my only chance to let him know about Frankie. I take a deep breath and step toward the table. “Papá, Tía Ileana, I met this boy at the shopping mall. He wants to learn English, so I'm going to teach him tomorrow night.”

“What's his name?” my father asks.

“Frankie Zamora.”

“Absolutely not,” Tía Ileana says. “You just met the boy.”

I hold her gaze. “He came home with me today and carried my bags. He was nice.”

Papá takes a long drag from his cigarette. “How old is he?”

“Eighteen. He said he graduated last year.”

“And you're . . .?” Papá asks.

“Sixteen. My birthday was June third.”
And guess who missed it?

“Chelo,” my aunt says, using his childhood nickname, “this is not a good idea. We know nothing about him. He could hurt her.”

“He's a boy.” My father stabs his cigarette into the
ashtray and glares at my aunt. “Get it? A boy. She's meeting him, and that's final.”

Tía Ileana flushes. “Cecilia. Remember what happened to her?” My aunt's voice breaks at the mention of their sister. She stalks out of the room.

“
Gracias
, Papá,” I whisper as soon as I hear her footsteps above us. Then I realize I just thanked him for being a bigot and a jerk, and I feel like crap.

He finishes his beer and looks around the room. “Where's Ileana?”

“You pissed her off, so she ditched you.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “She'll come back.”

“Don't count on it.” I shudder and reach for his hand. “I'll help you upstairs.”

C
HAPTER
6

Saturday, June 17: 65 days until I go home

A
t eight thirty, Tía Ileana and her girlfriend, Berta, are at the house baking empanadas for a party. Frankie doesn't show up as he promised. I pace between the door and the living room window until the waxed floorboards turn dull. My aunt pops out of the kitchen, her pale hands covered in flour. “Calm down,
amorcita
. He'll be here,” she says.

Berta steps into the room. She's the same height but about twice the width of my aunt. Her hair is short and gray and her skin almost as light as Tía Ileana's. “She's your brother's kid.” Berta shakes her head. “No damn patience.”

“Tina doesn't understand. She's lived half her life in the United States, and there it's all hurry, hurry,” my aunt replies. She explains to me that thirty minutes late is the custom here. But it doesn't stop me from pacing for the forty-five minutes until Frankie arrives.

I hear the buzzer for the gate and grab my purse. “
Chao
,” I call out.

“Not so fast. I meet this boy first,” Tía Ileana says.

Berta stays in the kitchen. Tía Ileana goes over the rules one last time. No physical contact, except for holding hands. No drugs. No drinking. She raises her voice when she says, “Do not get into a car with him if he's been drinking,” leaving little doubt in my mind how the crash happened that killed Tía Cecilia. She doesn't say anything about a motorcycle because I don't tell her Frankie has one. She's almost out of breath from reciting the list by the time she says, “Home at midnight—no excuses.”