“You shit. Maybe it’s a sign of affection.”
Wow. I had actually never thought of that. “My bad,” I said.
“Yeah,” Sam said, “your bad.”
Fito, he was still thinking about Sam’s story. He looked at her and said, “That sucks, that she left you alone.”
“Yeah, well, my mother was a complicated woman. I used to hate her. Now I miss hating her.” She shrugged. “That came out wrong.”
“That came out perfectly,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah. Your turn, Sally.”
“Okay. I don’t have horror stories like you guys. See, when you guys are all grown up, you’re going to have all these stories about how you survived your childhood. Me, I won’t have any of those stories.”
And then, both Sam and Fito looked at me and it was as if they’d rehearsed, because they both blurted out at the same time, “Bullshit.”
“Bullshit? Really?”
“You heard us,” Sam said.
“Whatever,” I said. “Let me see. I think the worst moment of my life was that night when you called from in front of Walgreens, Sammy. I was so scared. I thought someone had really, really hurt you. That was the worst moment of my life.”
Sam leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “You are the sweetest boy I have ever known. And—?don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing that you’re going through a crisis. You know, maybe it’s a good thing.”
“I’m going through a crisis?”
“You’re an idiot. But you are the sweetest boy in the world.”
“Yeah. Too bad you’re straight.” Fito was wearing this really great smile. I wondered how he could smile like that. His life was complicated, with a capital C. I guess all our lives were complicated. Even mine. Sam’s mother was dead. Fito didn’t have a place of his own. Mima was dying, and everything was changing. I felt as if I needed to do something to fix everything that was wrong with all the people I loved. But I couldn’t fix anything. Not a damn thing.
Dad
WHEN SAM AND I got home, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table going through some recipes. “Thanksgiving,” he said. “It’s coming up on us. I think I’ll bake the pies this year.”
“Cool,” I said. “We’ll help you.”
“Everyone will be in by Wednesday.”
“You excited, Dad?”
“Yeah, I am. It’ll be great to see Julian.” My Uncle Julian was the oldest. My dad was the youngest, and there was that big age spread. Yet they were so close. Dad was wearing one of those nostalgia smiles. He looked at me and smirked. “Of course, they’ll all spoil you.”
“Well, it’s not my fault I was the baby. Everybody was all grown up when I came along.”
My dad laughed. “You were such a great kid, always laughing. When you were about four, you had a habit of exploring everyone’s face with your small fingers. You used to run your hands across my face, and if I hadn’t shaved, you’d run to the bathroom, get my razor, and hand it to me. For some reason, you hated an unshaved face.”
I watched him as he went through his recipes. “What kind of pies are you gonna make, Dad?”
“Pumpkin. One apple pie for Julian. He doesn’t like pumpkin. And maybe a couple of pecan pies. Your Aunt Evie loves pecan pies.”
“And Mima?”
“Mima’s like me. Traditional pumpkin pie.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Me too,” Sam said. “Did you know I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving dinner?”
I looked at her. “What?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not an alien from Mars.”
“What did you do on Thanksgiving?”
“My mom and I went to the Sun Bowl Parade—?which always lasted forever—?and we’d watch all the people, and then we’d go out to eat and to a movie. That was our Thanksgiving.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
“I liked the parade and the movie. And you know, I didn’t really care.”
My dad shook his head. “Well, you’re in for a treat.”
“The best part of Thanksgiving is on Friday,” I said.
Sam was wearing a question mark on her face.
“On Friday we make tamales,” I said. “It’s a tradition.”
Samantha raised her arms, as if she were watching a soccer match and someone had scored a goal. “I’m totally going on Facebook with the tamale thing. For those haters out there who think I know absolutely nothing about being a Mexican.”
Dad just grinned.
Me. Sam. Us Doing This.
I WAS LYING in bed. Alone. Maggie was into this taking-turns-sleeping-with-us thing. Sometimes she slept with me. Sometimes she slept with Sam. That dog was all about equality.
I got this idea in my head to make a book for Mima. Well, not a book exactly, but photos with captions on them. I guess I wanted to give her something before she died. Yeah, she was going to die. I hated that word.
I remembered a story my dad told me about Mima, how she’d come upon some thieves on their farm. The thieves were stealing all the sacks of dried red chile she’d worked so hard to harvest. Sacks of chile she’d sell to help support her family. And there they were, these two guys putting the sacks in their truck. She threatened to cut them down like the weeds they were, and she managed to keep them at bay with a hoe until Popo arrived. I loved that story. I tried to picture her as a strong woman, holding a hoe like a baseball player at bat. Protecting what she’d worked for. Protecting her children, who were lined up behind her. I remembered one of our teachers, talking to another teacher in the hallway, saying, “Today’s kids don’t know shit about what we’ve been through.” Maybe she was right. But maybe she was wrong.
I saw I had a text from Sam: U think Fito’s all right?
Me: It’s like heaven for him. He lived in hell
Sam: Guess ur right
Me: U were great today
Sam: Y? B-cuz I let him stay in a house that’s empty?
Me: U didn’t have to do that
Sam: World doesn’t need another homeless guy
Me: R we changing Sam?
Sam: Yup called growing up. I was behind. I’m trying to catch up to my hero
Me: ?
Sam: YOU, you idiot
Me: Awwwwww
Sam: No extra credit for being decent human beings. Isn’t that what ur dad says?
Me: Yup. I think we should tell him about Fito
Sam: Thought about that. We’ll tell him later. This is us. WE R DOING THIS. US. ME N U
Me: U rock
Sam: I m proud of us
Me: Me too
Sam: But we’ll tell ur dad
A Father Thing
I CALLED SAM on her cell when I woke up. That was her alarm. Time to run. I changed into my running clothes and sat on my bed for a little while. Sometimes when you get up, you aren’t really awake. But you aren’t really asleep, either.
I made my way to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. That was the routine now. Drink water, go running, then drink coffee. Coffee tasted better after a run. Well, another glass of water, then the coffee.
Dad wasn’t reading the paper. He was sketching something on his pad and drinking his coffee. I sat down. Then Sam walked into the kitchen. “Dad,” I said, “we have something to tell you.”
My dad got this look on his face.
“Relax, it’s nothing bad,” I said.
Sam sat down. “Mr. V, we’ve kidnapped Fito.”