THAT NIGHT, DAD called just to tell me they were checking Mima into the Mayo Clinic. He’d left me an ATM card in case I needed anything. “Don’t go crazy with that card.” He was joking. I knew that. I was sitting on my dad’s leather chair, and Maggie was lying at my feet. When I finished talking to Dad, I looked around the house. I stared at the picture my dad had painted that hung on the wall. It was a large painting that almost took up the whole wall. It was a portrait of a bunch of kids around a pi?ata. The kids were his brothers and sisters. And it was my Uncle Mickey who was swinging at the pi?ata. And the kid who was my father was off to the side. I loved that painting. But as I looked at it, I felt alone again. I didn’t feel like being alone. I knew I’d start thinking about things. Shit.
As I poured myself a glass of cold milk, this thought entered my head: If I ran into my biological father, would we recognize each other because we looked alike? Would we know? He isn’t my dad, he isn’t my dad, he isn’t my dad.
I texted Sam: Lonely. Slumber party?
Sam: Aww. Can’t. School night. And Sylvia’s on the warpath Me: What happened?
Sam: She b like upset about the Eddie thing and she’s holding up my college apps. She’s pissed. I’m pissed. Living in hell Me: Sorry.
Sam: Gotta go. Sylvia just walked into room. She’s been writing something on my bathroom mirror TTYL
I decided to text Fito: Dad’s gone. Alone. Wanna come over?
Fito: It’s getting late
Me: Where r u?
Fito: Working at Cr. K. Not supposed to be texting Me: That sux. U get off when?
Fito: 11
Me: My place when ur off?
Fito: K. Cool for a bit. Not like I have a curfew Me: Cool cool. Can make sandwiches Fito: Sweet
Maggie and I went out to sit on the front steps a little after eleven to wait for Fito. I didn’t normally stay up late on a school night unless I was doing homework, but I wasn’t out there long. Maggie barked, and Fito appeared out of the darkness. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey. What up?”
“The stars,” I said.
Fito grinned. “Got no time to look up at the stars.”
“That sucks.”
“Yup.”
We went inside and I made Fito a sandwich. “Don’t you want one?” he asked.
“Nah. I think I’ll just make some popcorn.”
“You got popcorn?”
“Yup.” I grabbed a bag and put it in the microwave. Fito was chowing down. “Don’t you ever eat?”
“Oh yeah, my mom’s a regular chef.” He sort of laughed. “My mom gets food stamps. She fuckin’ sells her Lone Star card for drugs.”
“No bueno,” I said.
“No bueno is right,” he said. “So where’s your dad?”
“My Mima’s sick. Cancer. They took her to the Mayo in Scottsdale to check things out. So he’ll be gone a few days.”
“That sucks about your Mima.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”
“That’s not good. When I get to thinking, I wind up in a bad place.”
“I guess I do too. But, well, you know that thing about the unexamined life that Mrs. Sosa is always talking about?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Sosa.” And then he put on the voice of our English teacher, and he got this really goofy look on his face. “‘The unexamined life is not worth living. Are you listening to me, Fito? Can you tell me which philosopher said this?’” And then he laughed. “That teach always thinks I’m not listening. Shit, I’m always listening.”
People never gave Fito enough credit. I hated that. Not even Sam gave him enough credit.
It was good to sit there and talk to Fito. We talked about school and teachers, and we ate popcorn and then ate more popcorn and drank a couple of Cokes. And then Fito, out of nowhere says, “You know, someday I’m gonna go looking for my father.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yup. I mean, me and him have a chance. You know, to have something.”
I nodded.
“You ever gonna go looking for your bio dad?” That’s how he put it, my bio dad.
“What would I say to him?”
Fito shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it would just answer a question you had in your head.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Fito was good at reading people. Then he said, “So how did you get the name Salvador?”
“Good question.”
“I mean, your mom was a gringa, right?”
“Yup.”
“And I take it your bio dad wasn’t Mexican.”
“Don’t think so. I don’t know. She just liked the name, I guess.”
“It’s a pretty heavy-duty name.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Then I looked at him and asked, “What’s your real name, Fito?”
“Adam.”
“No frickin’ way. Adam?”
“Yup. My mom, when I was born, she’d been clean for a while, and Adam, well, he was the new man and I was supposed to represent the new life. And hell, we know how that turned out. And I don’t know, my brothers always called me Fito because I had little feet. So feet equals Fito.” He shrugged. “Stupid. I have a stupid family.”
“I like Fito,” I said.
“I like Fito too,” he said.
Dad called every day.
We talked, but he didn’t seem like himself. And there wasn’t that much to talk about. Or maybe there was too much to talk about. Still, it was good to hear his voice, and I liked that he told me he loved me. I wondered if it was easier for him to say the words I love you because he was gay. I asked Sam about that. She said, “Don’t be stupid, Sally.”
Even a smart guy could be stupid. I was living proof.
The rest of the week that Dad was gone, I got on Facebook—?not that I was big Facebooker and not that I posted anything. I was one of those that just like to read everybody else’s posts. I guess I just needed some company. My friends mostly posted stupid stuff. But sometimes I didn’t mind stupid. I always clicked on LIKE. I guess you could say I was an indiscriminate liker. No harm done. My way of making people feel good. When I logged off, I scooped myself a whole bowl of ice cream. I sat on the back steps and stared out at the stars. I remember teaching Mima the constellations and how she’d been so proud of me because I’d been interested in the heavens. And I remembered what Fito said—?Got no time to look up at the stars.
As I sat there and looked up at all the stars, I felt really, really small.
Me and Sam
SAM TEXTED ME: Friday! Slumber party!
I texted back: Slumber party!
God, we could be such dorks. But if I ever said that to Sam, she’d be pissed. She wasn’t going for dork. No way in hell. Then I got to thinking that most people thought I was the boy who kept Sam from walking on the wrong side of the street. People gave me too much credit.
She came over and asked the eternal question: “What’s for dinner?” God, for a girl who ate the way she did, you’d think she’d be fat. But nope, she wasn’t.
“We could order pizza.”
“Ardovino’s!”
“Yup.”
“They don’t deliver.”
“Dad left the car.”
She was already on her cell phone, ordering the pizza.
“Don’t forget the salad.”