The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (25 page)

While placing his order, he flirted with the girl at the other end of the intercom:
What’s your name? What school do you go to? You got a boyfriend? I bet your eyes are blue?
She seemed
somewhat amused, but when we pulled up to the pickup window and she saw the Corvette, she beamed. Julio kept sweet-talking her and managed to get her to write down her phone number on the receipt. “You see—that’s the way it’s done, Blanco,” he said smugly as we drove off. We parked in the lot and started chowing down on our cheeseburgers. “So you kissed a girl yet?” he asked. “No . . . no, not yet,” I said. “Damn it, Blanco—what are you waiting for? You gay or something? I’m gonna hook you up this weekend, bro. César Gutierrez is having an open-house party on Saturday—and we’re going in this baby. My parents won’t be back until Sunday night.”

I thought about protesting, but knew he wouldn’t listen. Besides, the Corvette
was
cool, and Julio had a way of bringing out the rebel-without-a-cause in me. Together, we concocted a plan. On Saturday, I asked my father to drop me off at Julio’s house to hang out with him; his parents would bring me back home later. We left the phone off the hook, in case my parents happened to call. We jumped into the Corvette, and Julio eased out of the garage. Once we cleared his block, he popped in a Jimi Hendrix tape, floored it, and peeled out, leaving a trail of burnt-rubber smoke.

When we arrived at the party, the crowd had already spilled into the front yard. Julio drove slowly up and down the street at least three times, revving the engine so that everyone would notice us and get a good look at the Corvette. Heads turned, people stared, and I caught myself enjoying the attention. Being with Julio always made me feel cool. After we parked, we walked through the side yard of the house and straight into the backyard, where the rest of the action was. César had gone all out: a DJ, strobe lights, fog machine, and about twenty boxes of Frankie’s Pizza. At every turn, Julio was greeted with high fives and hello kisses. I followed him through the crowd as we made our way to the keg of beer César had set up behind the storage shed, out of his parents’ view. But Julio—who always had one up on everything and everyone—pulled out a flask of whiskey from the pocket of his denim jacket. “Here,” he said to the boys gathered around the keg, “this is the real thing—Jack Daniel’s,” and passed the flask around. Like most of the boys did, I held back from gagging when I took a swig, pretending I liked the taste, though my grimace gave me away.

A little buzzed and feeling loose, we wove our way through the crowd. Julio pointed out a girl named Anita who was a friend of an ex-girlfriend of his, and therefore off limits to him, he explained. “But man, is she a fox or what? Come on, Blanco, don’t chicken out,” he said as he grabbed me by the neck and prodded me toward her. “Julio? Hi! How’ve you been?” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. Julio cut right to the chase. “Great, great. Hey, I want you to meet my friend Blanco—I mean Ricky. He was just telling me he thinks you’re beautiful.” I faked a smile to fill the awkward silence, until Julio gave me a pointed look. “Yeah, you look beautiful,” I said, feeling a little courageous after the whiskey. “What school do you go to?”

Julio leaned into me and spoke in my ear. “Get her number,” he said, before he drifted away into the crowd, leaving me alone with Anita. We spent a few minutes on small talk about friends we had in common, and the grade schools we’d each gone to. I didn’t know what to say next. Unlike Julio or the other boys I knew, I didn’t know how to “rap” with girls, and I wasn’t sure I could learn. I almost walked away, but I held back, knowing I’d have to face Julio’s digs if I did. Then one of my favorite songs came on—“Rio.” Maybe I could impress her with my dance moves instead of my words. “You like this song?” I asked. “Oh, god yes—I love Duran Duran. You know, you kind of look like Simon Le Bon,” she said. “You have his eyes.” Her compliment gave me just enough confidence to ask her to dance. She said yes and tied back her jet-black hair, revealing more of
her heart-shaped face and porcelain skin. I thought:
What would I do next if I were Julio?
Still feeling a little buzzed from the whiskey, I took her hand. “Let’s go,” I said and led her to the dance floor.

Turned out she was a great dancer too. The DJ played two more Duran Duran songs in a row, driving both of us to really let go. We giggled as we spun, we clapped as we read each other’s eyes, we touched as we showed each other new dance steps. I had never danced so intimately with a girl before; it seemed all the dancing I
had
done with my
tías
at family gatherings was paying off with Anita. Then the DJ put on a ballad, and most of the dance floor cleared out, leaving Anita and me in plain sight. Without saying anything, I took a chance. I stepped toward her; she leaned into me. I placed my hands lightly around her waist, she draped her arms loosely around my shoulders, and we began to sway softly to the music, keeping a respectable distance between us.

I had never slow danced with a girl, though Julio had given me plenty of tips:
Blow in her ear . . . pull her tight against you . . . trace little circles on her back with your fingers
. But I couldn’t. Avoiding eye contact, all I dared to do was whisper, “Hey, you dance great.” She let out a coy giggle and said, “You too,” then came in closer and leaned her head on my shoulder. I tried to feel how Julio said he felt whenever he danced slow with a girl:
excited . . . horny . . . dizzy . . . out of control
. I
wanted
to feel those things. But nothing. I had only felt that way those times I’d snuck a peek of Francisco Hernandez’s body glistening in the shower room. But I couldn’t admit that to myself then. Instead I convinced myself I was just too nervous to feel anything with Anita—
that’s all . . . that’s all
.

Another ballad came on and we kept dancing until the music abruptly cut out, replaced by sirens. “Party’s over people,” the DJ announced. That was the way house parties usually ended; sooner or later, a pissed off neighbor would call the cops to complain about the music or the dozens of parked cars ruining a lawn or blocking driveways. Everyone seemed used to it. The crowd began breaking up calmly. Julio found me and Anita munching on some pizza: “Blanco, let’s get outta here. This party is dead, man,” he said. I told him to hold on a second. “Hey, Anita, can I get your number?” I asked. “Sure—it’s easy—221–3434. You can memorize it.” I touched her shoulder gently and kissed her good-bye on the cheek. “221–3434—got it,” I said, before dashing away with Julio.

“Man, way to go, Studly-Dudly,” Julio congratulated me on the ride back home. I tried to act as proud of myself as he was of me, parroting the kinds of things I knew he would say in my position. “Yeah, she’s beautiful, man—and what a body. I totally kissed her—it was hot,” I said. “I told you, Blanco—I told you. That’s awesome—finally! I thought there was something wrong with you,” Julio said. “Man, soon we’ll be able to ride this baby anywhere, anytime—and pick up all the chicks we want,” he said before dropping me off at home. But I didn’t feel like going inside. I sat on the front porch. Misu jumped on my lap. I listened to his purring and the rustle of the mango tree whispering into the night. I watched the Morse code of the
cocuyos
twinkling like the stars above me, like so many questions I couldn’t answer yet. I wondered why I had lied to Julio, why I couldn’t feel what I was supposed to feel with Anita.

The following week, Anita and I talked on the phone almost every night. She loved Tom Cruise, Tootsie Rolls, and the show
Dallas;
I loved Linda Carter, Blow Pops, and
The Brady Bunch
. We both loved Barbra Streisand, dancing, and croissants. Our conversations grew more intimate every time we spoke. She had two younger sisters she hated; I had one brother away at college
who wrote me every week. I missed him. Her favorite subjects were English and history—she wanted to be an elementary school teacher, maybe. My favorite classes were math and art—I was definitely going to be an architect, even though my
abuela
disapproved. Anita loved Miami, wanted to live on Biscayne Bay someday, and have three children—all boys; I dreamed of moving to Paris. She had kissed only one guy; I said I had kissed three girls before. She confessed that she missed her father, who had died—she never told him she loved him. I told her that my
abuela
was an awful and mean person. I had never been able to say that to anyone before Anita, even though I didn’t tell her exactly why Abuela was so cruel to me.

One night Anita and I made plans to meet up at the movie theater in Güecheste Mall the next Saturday. She was going to bring her friend Monica, and I was to bring Julio. She wanted to set them up and I agreed. Soon as we hung up, I called Julio. Right away he asked, “Hey man—how’s your foxy new girlfriend?” “Awesome, man. She’s totally cool. We’ve been talking every night this week. I can’t wait to kiss her again,” I said. “So listen, we’re going to the movies on Saturday. You wanna come? I wanna set you up with one of her girlfriends—Monica.” “Sure, Blanco—as long as she’s hot. That’s cool of you, bro,” he said. “Yeah—now I’m getting chicks for you!” I said, proud to be in Julio’s favor.

But on Thursday, while my family was eating dinner, the phone rang. Abuela answered. Dinnertime was when her last-minute bets came in. But the call was for me. It was Eric Caraballo: “Hey, you know Julio?” he said. What a dumb question, I thought, everyone knew Julio, and besides, we were best friends. “Yeah, man. Why—what’s up?” I replied, thinking it was just gossip about Julio. Maybe he got caught driving illegally or was in trouble again at school—perhaps expelled. “Do you remember his Corvette?” Eric continued. “Well, he was in an accident last night, man. He died—man. He’s dead,” Eric said. His voice cracked as he went on explaining the details, how Julio had wrapped the car around a utility pole on Forty-eighth Street and Miller Road. It was late at night and his parents had been out of town.

I hung up the phone. My face must’ve gone noticeably pale, prompting Mamá to ask me, “
¿Qué pasó, mi’jo?
Are you okay?” I sat back down at the table. All I could answer was, “Nothing, I’m fine,” and then a few seconds later: “Julio
se mató
. He’s dead, Mamá.” “
¿Cómo puede ser? Imposible
. . . He was just here last week. I made him . . .” Mamá couldn’t complete her sentences; she pushed her plate away and sobbed. None of us finished dinner; we just sat there in silence. Abuela cleared the table—tears falling on the half-full plates as she bused them to the sink. Mamá ushered me to my room, where I fell into bed. I stayed there the rest of that night, then all day Friday, in a daze, cuddling with Misu and watching reruns of
Bewitched
. I knew I should cry, I tried to cry, but I couldn’t. It all felt like a bad dream, a prank, a trick, a spell that could be reversed to erase the Corvette from Julio’s life.

The funeral was that Saturday, the day Julio and Monica and me and Anita were supposed to have had our double date. Papá drove the family to Rivero Funeral Home. When we arrived, I told Mamá I wanted to be alone; she said she understood, but followed me with her eyes as I drifted into a corner of the salon. I didn’t want to see Julio’s body or talk to his parents, or anyone, for that matter. Then Anita found me. She sat down next to me and rubbed my back. I let her. Hunched over in my seat with my head bowed, the tears finally came. Hand in hand we approached the casket, but I insisted on seeing Julio alone. I knelt before him: the boy who played guitar and taught me how to talk to girls; the boy who loved Jimi Hendrix and fast cars; the boy with wiry hair and a thin mustache; the boy I had loved like a brother, not how I wanted to love Francisco Hernandez; the boy I would never see again: his mouth closed, his hands still,
his eyes shut.

I spent the next day in bed, going over memories of Julio—laughing and crying, loving and hating him. Mamá comforted me, and assured me that going back to school would be the best thing for me. And so I did on Monday morning. Those of us who knew Julio read the disbelief and sorrow in each other’s eyes as we passed one another in the halls, but we did not speak of it. We were too young, too naive, too full of life to understand death. An unanswerable
why
haunted my mind, trapped in a different dimension than my body trudging through the motions of each day. Anita was the only thing that seemed real and constant. She and I continued calling each other and seeing each other during the weeks following Julio’s death. We’d talk about him and try to make sense of the senseless, reminiscing over all his crazy antics. Tried. Sometimes we’d go out for ice cream at Swenson’s or stroll Güecheste Mall holding hands. Sometimes she’d visit me at El Cocuyito on Saturdays and I’d get my
tío
Pipo to give her mother a discount, or I’d round up some fresh produce for her from the cold storage room.

After school I’d walk over to her school—our sister Catholic high school next door to mine. We’d sit on a bench under an enormous banyan tree, enjoy the breeze, and talk about our day: good grades, bad grades, who’d asked whom to go steady, who was having a party. Our friendship—the stories, the laughter, the gossip—filled part of my emptiness, soothed me, and strengthened my trust in her, in
us
. Yet, after nearly two months of us seeing each other, I still hadn’t kissed her. Why? She obviously liked me—and I liked her. But it never felt like the right time or place for a kiss—at least that’s what I’d tell myself. I didn’t want to admit that Anita felt more like a friend than a girlfriend to me. Still, I feared that if I didn’t make a move soon, she’d start thinking I was weird. When the homecoming dance was announced at my school, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity. We both loved to dance; we’d have a great time, and I’d think up something romantic to set the mood—to make it feel right. One afternoon I asked her to the dance. She said no at first, and then laughed: “Of course I’ll go with you. I was wondering when you were going to ask me.”

For weeks I saved all my tip money from my Saturday shifts at El Cocuyito to rent a tuxedo and buy a corsage. But it wasn’t enough. Knowing Abuela would help me out, I told her about Anita, and then asked her for a loan. “
¿Qué?
You have a girlfriend?
Ay, gracias a San Lázaro, mi’jo
. I’ve been praying for a nice girl for you.
Pero
why didn’t you tell me?” she said, then darted to her
guaquita
. She returned with a wad of cash and counted out the thirty dollars I needed—and an extra ten bucks. “
Coje,
take a little more,” she said. “You don’t have to pay me back, but I want to meet her. When is the dance?”