“And dangerous. You have no idea how many people die choking on their own quesadillas when they’re drunk. There are PSAs in movie theaters in Mexico about it.”
Emma smacks my arm. “Shut up.” She laughs again. Every time she does I get the feeling that a little part of me is coming back; my skin becomes less translucent. Since the Night of the Perfect Taco, I haven’t really been able to make anyone laugh. Dad even pointed it out a few times. “You used to be funny,” he said once, as if he couldn’t think of any possible reason why I may have lost my sense of humor.
I try to forget about Dad. “Did you feel okay today?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t really that drunk,” she says, shrugging. She’s kicking at pebbles, a quirk that I find oddly charming, maybe because in Mexico City it would be a pointless endeavor. The cracked and crowded sidewalks would make you lose track after a kick or two, but here Emma kicks the same gray pebble for a mile. We walk for twenty minutes or so, following the sounds of the staff ahead of us, the wind blowing in such a way that it carries their conversations to us.
Matt’s house is on the opposite side of the lake, in a part of the island that I haven’t been to yet. It’s a fairly small house with a huge backyard, surrounded by trees. By the time we arrive, there’s about twenty people sipping on beers. Half are from the kitchen, the other half the bonfire crowd from the other night, kids around me and Emma’s age, still in high school.
Emma leads us directly to the non-restaurant crew. There’s about ten of them standing in a circle around the back porch, a couple more seated on the stairs. Brandy says hi, and Emma introduces me to the rest of the crowd. I wonder briefly if one of the guys (Reggie, Paul, Ben) was at the bar last night, if one might be the Faceless Wad of Flesh. I try to suppress the jealousy, set my mind on just making Emma laugh, chasing after that feeling.
Emma appears at my side with a beer almost as soon as I notice that she stepped away. “If you get drunk tonight, it’s now my turn to make you something to eat,” she says. “Preferably cheesy and salsa-y and not so insect-y.”
I immediately start chugging the beer, and her laugh unravels a knot that’s been in my stomach all day.
I stand in the circle, laughing occasionally, sipping on a beer just to keep myself busy. I try to contribute to the conversation, but it comes out as a stupid joke. I think maybe, in my exhaustion, I got confused and made the joke in Spanish so I repeat what I said. They all stare at me like I’m insane. Emma too.
So I slip away toward the grill.
Isaiah’s working on getting the coals started, while Elias and Matt sit on nearby patio furniture, putting dishes together on the glass table. Elias is skewering vegetables and pieces of marinated chicken, and Matt is concocting a sauce in a stainless-steel bowl. I wish I would have stopped by the store or the motel room so I could contribute something, or at least have something to do. I ask if I can help, but no one really needs it, or no one hears me ask.
Back and forth I go, trying to make myself a part of either group. Kitchens or the island, I don’t have enough experiences to talk about so I’ve got barely a toe in each little pool. The night pushes on, a chill coming in from the ocean.
As the temperature drops, dew forms on grass and fogs up the sliding glass door that leads into the house. Felix shows himself there, waving goofily, and since there’s no one else for me to go to (Emma, occasionally looking over, smiling, is deep in a one-on-one with Brandy), I pull up a chair next to the door, sit down with a plate of food on my lap. It’s like I’m a shadow, visible but easy to miss.
There’s a surprising amount of detail in the cloudy window. Felix’s stubble is visible, the exact way he would put his arms behind his head when relaxing. The gunshot’s not there, but I can tell he’s wearing that shirt again. “It hasn’t been a bad week, huh?”
“I guess not.”
The little particles of condensation that are acting as Felix try to reach out to smack me on the arm, with obviously no results. “Relax. What, you want to be best friends with everyone already? These things take time. New experiences are lonely. You should have seen how it went for me sometimes.”
I bring a chicken skewer up to my mouth to hide the fact that my lips are moving. “Really?”
“Really. When I was in that kibbutz in Israel I sometimes went days without talking to anyone.”
“That’s pretty shocking, since you never shut up.”
“Funny,” Felix says. He reaches out on the glass, makes three snowballs out of the fog, starts juggling. “If you think loneliness goes away because you’ve effectively started your adult life, you should think again.”
I take a bite, chew purposefully, trying to pick out the flavors in the marinade. Almost like a chimichurri, lots of herbs. Elias and Memo are smoking cigars; Emma’s friends are passing around a joint. Paper plates with crumbs and sauce puddles are strewn around the yard, on tables and chairs and at people’s feet. Clouds overhead cover up the moon and stars that I am growing accustomed to seeing every day. I must be covered by a cloud too, because I’m speaking freely to a door and no one seems to notice.
Felix splits the balls he’s juggling into four and then five and then ten. I fight the urge to reach out and wipe away the condensation from the glass. I don’t want to be alone again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Felix chuck a ball at me. I flinch, and then I have to pretend that I’m swatting away a mosquito in case anyone’s watching.
“I can’t believe you fell for that,” Felix laughs. “On so many levels.”
“Shut up,” I say.
He does for a sec. Emma looks over in my direction. Her glasses are slightly smudged, her cheeks rosy and her hair in a messy bun. She doesn’t wave me over, but she does smile, and I smile back, happy for the acknowledgment.
“Hey, Carlos?” Felix says.
“Yeah?”
“I’m bored to death.”
I want to roll my eyes but keep it to myself in case anyone’s looking. I get up to make myself another plate of food, even though I’m too tired to be hungry. Another chicken skewer, some roasted veggies, Argentinian choripán.
I attempt mingling one more time. Matt, Morris and Boris are smoking those flavored mini-cigar things, chairs gathered in a semi-circle, facing the rest of the party. I’m maybe twenty feet away, already losing my nerve, when all three of them stop their conversation and just watch me approach. I take an immediate turn toward Emma’s group, and I can hear them burst into laughter.