We didn’t talk in English yesterday. Didn’t even look at each other, in spite of our phone conversation Thursday night, or maybe because of it. Sitting two feet from him now, I can’t help imagining his mother, a discontented scientist frustrated by small-town Paloma, and his father, resentful and underappreciated. But as for Matt himself . . . after Thursday night, I don’t know what to think about him. He changed over the phone, showed me a new face.
I look out the window, up at the flat blue sky. The way my sister acted last night at dinner—giving me a glimpse of how she used to be—made me think that maybe she can change, too. I hadn’t heard her laugh in so long. Hearing it pulled up a well of memories, even nostalgia, like hearing a song I might have had on repeat during a bittersweet summer.
“Here’s me,” Matt says, turning down the radio. We pull up outside a small white house with black shutters. He parks at the curb.
I sling my backpack on and follow him up a weed-trimmed path. The porch paint is flaking off, and bugs have gnawed holes in the window screens. I shiver, waiting as he unlocks the door with a stained silver key.
Finally, Matt wedges the door open. We enter his living room, a nest of warmth and color. A squashy-looking couch is upholstered in red, scattered with stitched pillows. Above it, a magnificent painting of the sun stretches across the wall, its orange rays lighting the ridges of a mountain range. A deeply scored mantel holds three different cuckoo clocks and a row of intricate crucifixes, and a television sits on an end table. Quilts and blankets and clutter cover every surface. The Jackson household clearly does not go for the whole minimalism thing.
“We can work in here or the kitchen—whatever,” Matt says, giving the door a firm shove with his shoulder. It slides back into its ill-fitting frame with a muffled bang.
I look around. The coffee table, like the rest of the room, is overflowing, filled with magazines and half-melted candles. “Do you have a kitchen table we could use?”
“Sure.” He heads down the hall. I follow, peering through the doors to the left and right: a whirring laundry room, a tiny bathroom with a stained mirror, and another small hall ending in a staircase. An indistinct smell hangs around—the new air of an unfamiliar house. Different-smelling detergent, maybe, mixed with a few types of scented air fresheners.
His kitchen, bigger than the living room, fits in a long counter, an island, and a fat wooden table with six chairs. Beside the table, three plates hang on the wall, painted dappled blue. Delicate green and orange floral designs blossom out from their center.
“Those are gorgeous.” I wave at the plates, setting the poster materials on the table.
“They’re my grandma’s.” Matt draws out a chair and sits. “They’re, like, sixty years old.”
“Did she make them?”
“Nah. Mom’s side of the family is from Puebla. There’s this special ceramic style, regional, called Talavera, and those are from the city.”
I sit across from him, unzipping my backpack. “Puebla. Is that in . . .”
“Mexico. South-Central Mexico.”
“You still have family there?” I ask.
“Yeah, a few great-aunts, but my grandparents moved to St. Louis in the seventies, so all my closer family is up here. Except my uncle. He’s, like, a stock market guy in London.”
“Fancy.” I unroll the poster, flattening its edges under a pair of textbooks. “Man, I want to go to London. Mexico’s on my to-visit list, too. I’ve never been out of the country, so.”
“Yeah?” Matt says. “I’ve visited Mexico a few times, for, like, two weeks at a go, but I always feel so fake-Mexican, ’cause I’m only half. I haven’t lived there or anything, so all my Mexican relatives think of me as white-bread American.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Claro que sí.”
“Aha,” I say. “Yo también, sort of.”
Matt smiles, pulling off his beanie. His messy hair falls across his forehead. “So, this poster thing. Should—”
“Matt?” says a voice.
I look over my shoulder. The cutest child in the world, probably, stands in the doorway. A mop of dark hair tops his tan little face, and unlike Matt’s, his eyes are bright blue. When he sees me, his mouth shuts, and he takes a step back.
“Hey, Russ,” Matt says, standing. “You came down the stairs by yourself?”
“I can climb down stairs,” Russ says, the picture of three-year-old indignation.
I grin. Matt lifts his hands. “Right, obviously, my bad.” He points to me. “This is Olivia. Want to wave hi?”
Russell flaps a hand frantically at me. “Hi. My name is Russell.”
“Hey, Russell,” I say. “Nice to meet you. I like your house.”
He doesn’t reply, looking back to Matt with pleading eyes.
“What’s the matter, Russ?” Matt says.
“I want car. The car was . . . the car was too high. I tried to climb.”
“Oh jeez, don’t climb your shelves,” Matt says. “I’ll get it for you.” He glances at me. “Give me a sec?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll start this.”
“Thanks.”