—You eat salad now? Mami said.
—What’s your hardest class? Leidy said. She pushed the last few grains of rice around on her plate, picked one up and crammed it into Dante’s mouth.
I thought about her question for longer than I had to, watching globs of oil on my plate separate themselves from the rest of the steak’s juices. I picked up my fork and tried again.
—English, I said. My writing class. But for a reason I should probably explain.
—You’re taking English? my mom said. Why? You already speak English. Great English. If anything you should be taking Spanish.
I dragged my fork through the separated oil, tried to get its circles to break and slip back where they belonged.
—They make you take it, I said. It’s a requirement, Mami. But the reason –
—Why do they make you take something you already know?
—It’s not just me that has to take it, Mom. It’s everyone.
—They make everyone take English, Leidy said. For real?
—I call that a waste of time, Mom said. Making you take classes for stuff you know almost your whole life already.
With my fork I lifted the edge of the steak; the rice underneath was now stained the same gray as the meat. I lowered it and cut off the corner, gave up and tucked it in my mouth.
—It’s not English like speaking English, I said. It’s writing and research and stuff.
—Do they teach you to talk with your mouth full? Leidy said.
My mom waved her paper towel napkin at Leidy and shushed a Stop.
—Whatever, Leidy, I said. Because you’ve got great manners. Because you’re so classy.
My sister stood from the table and grabbed the empty plates, stacked them on top of each other. Dante reached up for her with two oil-slicked hands.
—Excuse me for asking you a simple question, she said.
I chewed and ignored the clash of plates and cutlery in the sink behind me. I cut the steak into tiny pieces and then mixed them in with the rice, focusing very hard on only this and ready to say, if asked, that I was just making it Tupperware ready. I heard my mom push her seat back from the table, but she didn’t get up.
—So, Mami said. Are you gonna see Omar? While you’re here?
Leidy turned off the water and waited, a plate in her hands, for my answer.
I’d planned on surprising him, too—I hadn’t told Omar I’d be home for Thanksgiving—but I hadn’t spoken to him since we talked on the phone a week earlier, the night before my plagiarism hearing. We were, I guess, officially still a couple, but I’d made up my mind after that last phone conversation to end things the next time I saw him in person. I didn’t want to face him yet, but I didn’t want to set off any alarms for my mom either. She loved him; he called her Mom; she’d known his mother Blanca for years, ever since Omar and Leidy got placed in the same seventh-grade homeroom in middle school.
—I wanted this to be more of a family trip, I said.
My food had stopped steaming and didn’t smell like much of anything anymore.
—He is family almost, Mami said. He’ll be hurt if he finds out you were here.
—You really should call him, Leidy said like a warning. He’s gonna find out you were here. You know Mami will say something to Blanca.
—No I won’t! I can keep a secret. Plus it’s only Thanksgiving, Mami said to her. Blanca won’t even think to ask if Lizet came back for some random days. It’s no big deal, not like Christmas.
I couldn’t help thinking of the nights in the dorm where I didn’t go in with my hallmates on pizza—I’m just not hungry, no big deal, I’d lie—because after paying so much for the flight, I was just plain broke.
—But it is. It’s a big deal, I said. I wanted to surprise you guys.
—No, of course, Mami said. You did, really. I’m just saying, you know what I mean about Thanksgiving.
She patted my hand and said, Of course you coming is a big deal. But really mama, think about calling Omar. It’s a waste of a trip if you don’t see him.
The cold food in front of me—that was a waste; the time Leidy spent waiting for Roly to come around—another waste; but until my mom said that about Omar and my trip, I hadn’t considered the money I spent to come home as belonging in the same category.
Leidy came back to the table, the drying towel smushed up in her hands. She smoothed it out, then folded it into a square—the skin of her hands strong and tan, almost glowing, nothing like mine, with its winter-induced alien damage. She picked up our napkins and said, What time you need to be at the airport tomorrow?
I scratched at the back of my hand. Noon, I lied.
My flight actually left at two, but almost as a family rule, we always ran late, and since I was the only one who’d seen my itinerary and my true time of departure, I gave us plenty of padding for our tendency to run on Cuban Time.