I’M STAYING OVER AT JAMIE’S TONIGHT; I’VE taken the bus half an hour across town to where she lives. She greets me with a shy hug at the bus stop, and we walk together toward the apartment she shares with her mom and brother.
The houses are smaller and older here than where I live, but the paint is bright, and all the lawns are neat and tidy. A couple of garage doors are open, revealing people lounging on chairs, eating chips, and watching the world go by. Some of them are wearing Giants T-shirts; I guess there’s a game tonight. I try not to look around too much, try not to let on how different this is from my neighborhood, where the garage doors are closed and the lounging happens in the backyard. Why do I care, though? There’s nothing wrong with me being curious about a new place . . . is there?
Two little girls and a boy are kicking a soccer ball around the concrete driveway of a blocky, beige stucco apartment house. Another girl is riding a pink bicycle up and down the sidewalk in front. They wave at Jamie and me as we walk past them to the back of the building and climb the stairs to the second floor.
“Ta-daa!” she sings as she ushers me in. “You can put your stuff here in the corner for now. We’ll pull out the couch later, or we can sleep on the floor.” Jamie and her mom share a bedroom, and her brother Tommy has the other one—a less than satisfactory situation, to say the least, when you’re spending the night with your girlfriend. But Jamie has promised that her mom will be asleep by eleven o’clock, and Tommy’s working the night shift in his new job as a security guard.
The apartment is immaculate, though it’s crammed with stuff. There are framed photos on every surface—Jamie as a baby; Jamie in a kindergarten graduation cap and gown; Jamie in a lacy white dress and gloves (“my First Communion,” she says); Jamie wearing various soccer uniforms; Jamie in her eighth grade graduation cap and gown; Jamie in her Anderson cross-country uniform. There are photos of her sister, Sarah, wearing all the same outfits, plus high school graduation, college graduation, wedding, and family photos with her husband and baby. There are even more photos of Tommy. There are photos of everyone together. There are photos of what must be cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents. The only photo my family displays is a small black-and-white one of Jiji, Dad’s dad, who died when I was a baby—and that one’s shut up inside a little black altar in the corner of our living room.
Mrs. Ramirez is tiny—shorter than Mom, even. She has curly hair like Jamie’s, but it’s shoulder-length. She’s in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something that smells sweet. Her face lights up when she sees me, and I notice that she has the same dimple on her chin that Jamie does. “Chocolate pudding,” she says, nodding at the pot. “For your dessert.”
Jamie puts her arm around her mother’s shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. “She makes the best chocolate pudding in the world,” she says, smiling at Mrs. Ramirez.
“Ay, mijita, basta. Enough.” But she looks pleased. She dips a spoon in, blows on it to cool it, and holds it out for me to taste. “I haven’t put the chocolate in yet,” Mrs. Ramirez says, “but it’s already delicious—sweet and creamy. You like it?” I nod.
A guy with spiky black hair and eyes just like Jamie’s appears from the hallway—Tommy, I guess. The guy who broke the computer and made it so that Jamie could hang out at my house after school. I should thank him. He glances at me as he pushes past Jamie into the kitchen. “You Jamie’s Asian friend?”
That throws me off balance, because a) duh, and b) why does he have to go pointing it out like that? Is he making fun of me, somehow? Or Jamie? Or is he just that bad at conversation? I’m too confused to put together a real response, so I just nod.
“Who’s paying you to hang out with her?”
Jamie punches him on the arm. “Shut up, Tommy.” To me she says, “Just try to pretend he’s not here.” Tommy pulls a spoon out of a drawer and starts to dip it into the pudding, but Mrs. Ramirez slaps his hand away.
“?Ay! No toques!” Then she reaches her arm out. “Ven aca. Dame un beso, mijo.” Tommy rolls his eyes and bends down to kiss Mrs. Ramirez. “?Ya vete! Go!” She shoves him away and waves her spoon at him. “?ándale! ?Vas a llegar tarde a trabajo!”
Tommy heads out, shouting, “Bye!” and slams the door behind him.
“Terminalo,” Mrs. Ramirez says, handing Jamie the spoon and gesturing at the pot. Sarah’s having date night with her husband, so Mrs. Ramirez has to get ready to go and babysit Ariella.
As I watch Jamie stir the pudding, I hear the rattle-rumble of an old engine, the squeak of breaks, and then three doors slamming—bam! bam! bam!—emphatic as exclamation marks. A minute later, Arturo, Christina, and JJ troop inside without even knocking. “Buenas noches, Se?ora,” all three of them say to Mrs. Ramirez, who’s back in the kitchen, checking on the pudding one last time. Christina is carrying two Tupperware containers, which she plunks on the kitchen counter. “These are from Mami and me, to say thank you for driving her to work last week.”
“Ay, no tenias que hacer eso, mijita. Ya estas bastantes ocupada,” says Mrs. Ramirez, frowning at Christina as she accepts the containers.
“No fue molestia. You’re busier than anyone, anyway.”
Mrs. Ramirez peeks inside the top container. “?Mira, estas galletas! ?Que deliciosas!” She pulls out a cookie, takes a bite, and winks at Christina. “Pero tu mami no las hizo.”
“No, I made them,” Christina admits, turning pink.
Mrs. Ramirez takes another bite of the cookie and lifts the lid of the bottom container. “Y tu pollo especial. Gracias, mijita. Que buena ni?a eres.” She gives Christina a warm hug and a kiss.
Christina smiles, and her expression softens into something warm and shy and almost sweet.
Mrs. Ramirez lets her go and asks, “?Cómo está tu papi?”
Christina shrugs, her face still soft and now tired, too, and I can’t tear my eyes away—it’s so strange to see her like this. But then she looks up and catches me staring, and her face hardens back to its usual iciness. Guiltily, I look away. I get the feeling that I’ve just witnessed something she didn’t want me to see.
The boys have made themselves comfortable on the couch, and Jamie’s mom leans over and kisses them, too, before calling, “Buen provecho, mijitos. ?Adiós!” and rushing out the door.
We settle in and eat Christina’s special chicken, and I don’t even have to lie when I tell Christina how delicious it is. She looks genuinely pleased, and says with a hint of pride in her voice, “My dad taught me how to make it, but I changed a few ingredients. And added a couple steps.” I relax a little. Maybe we’re making progress.