“It is,” she says, closing her eyes briefly at the memory. “I started meeting him out front every morning after that. I would cut the rose for him, trim it up and wrap the stem in a paper towel. He’d always say, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Mendoza.’ He’d head off to school with a flower to deliver. This went on for a few weeks, and then finally I had to ask him, ‘Nico, what does your girl think of all these flowers? Is she your girlfriend yet?’”
She stands, pushing in her chair and moving toward the kitchen, and we all turn, engrossed by her story.
“You know what he told me?” she asks.
I shake my head no again.
“He said she told him she thought he was ugly, and he should stop bringing her flowers,” she chuckles.
My mouth drops to a frown fast, and my mom gasps a sad noise.
“That’s horrible,” I say, imagining a heartbroken Nico being told he’s ugly by a girl he liked enough to bring flowers to.
“I thought so, too. But then I thought, he’s still taking the flowers. So, I asked him what he was doing with the flowers now, and he said he was bringing them to new girls. He said he was going to give a flower to a new girl every day instead, to make them feel nice. And we kept up our deal, every morning. He took flowers to teachers, to the woman that ran the cafeteria, to the principal, to girls in his class. It didn’t matter who they were, he said. They all deserved flowers. And one day, there would be a girl that he thought deserved them all.”
My breath is gone when she lifts a vase from the sink, blooms of purple, pink, orange, white and red stuffed inside, each hand-cut carefully, stuffed and fit together in a clear-blue vase with a ribbon tied around the center. My eyes mist as she brings the vase close to me, and I rub my thumbs to blot away the tears. My mom does the same.
“Thanks, Mrs. Mendoza,” Nico says from behind me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, pushing them down deep, his shoulders hunched in a shrug, his smile crooked. The sweetest boy I’ve ever known.
“You’re welcome, Mijo,” she says. I stand and take them from her, breathing in their scent before turning slowly and walking over to him.
“You’re something, you know that?” I say, shaking my head and setting my flowers down on the corner of the table. I push my hands beneath his arms, wrapping them around his waist until he finally lets his free from his pockets and pulls me close to him, squeezing me against his chest and kissing the top of my head.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, letting out a small breath with his shrug and crooked smile.
“What’s going on in here?” my father asks, a little looser after what I’m guessing is his third beer. He steps in through the back door and Nico lets go of his hold on me out of habit.
“Not much, Chad. Your daughter’s boyfriend is just raising the bar really high, making all you men look bad,” my mom says.
My father’s brow wrinkles, and the entire table of women laugh, some reaching across to high-five my mom.
My dad turns his focus to Nico next.
“I just gave her flowers sir,” he shrugs, keeping his shoulders high like he’s waiting for the punch.
My dad looks to the table, leaning forward to smell them, then stepping back.
“Flowers, huh?” he says.
He pulls one out from center, holding it out in a gesture as if to ask if he can have it. Nico nods with a smile, and my dad walks around the table and hands it to my mom. She takes it in her delicate hand, her head falling to the side as she looks up to meet my father’s gaze.
“You romantic fool,” she teases, moving to her feet and then her tiptoes as she kisses my dad softly on the lips, blushing under his gaze as she sits again.
“Awe.” Nico’s Uncle Danny puts on a feminine voice to break the mood and tease my dad, and soon the kitchen is buzzing with laughter and music.
Valerie begins serving food, handing plates around and encouraging everyone to come in from outside, inviting more neighbors over to eat. My brother has found a spot on the sofa next to Nico, and they’re both sitting with plates on their laps and the USC game on the TV. I stay in the kitchen, watching them talk, and pound fists over good plays.
“I love their game,” my brother says.
“Oh my God, I know. They never huddle. But everyone knows exactly what the play is, where to go, and they hit it—every freakin’ time!” Nico says loudly.
“Nicolas Medina, your tongue!” Valerie shouts from the kitchen.
“I said freakin’ Mom,” he shouts.
“Yeah, don’t act like I don’t know what freakin’ means. Beat your freakin’ head next time you think you can use that word here,” she says, moving her attention back to her plate, reaching for a pitcher of lemonade in the center of the table.
Nico laughs her off, chuckling with my brother, and the scene of them both seems so perfect, I don’t know why it’s taken so long to happen.
“You like Southern Cal then, huh?” my dad says from the easy chair he’s commandeered on the opposite end of the living room.
“Hell yeah…I mean…heck yeah,” Nico says, quieting down, but still getting a glare from his mom.