Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  “You okay?” he asks, panting.

  “Yeah, just hungry,” I lie. I’m hungry, tired, excited, and I have killer heartburn.

  He takes a big drink of water by pouring it down his throat. Don’t know how people can do that. I’m a sipper, a gulper at most.

  “Here, take these,” he starts, reaching into his bag and handing me the rest of the nuts.

  Grateful, I chew them slowly like each bite is a multiple-course meal, something out of Wonka. I want to stop forever. I could die here comfortably if I was told I could sleep right now. My everything hurts, which means I’ve had time to notice my body. Which means we have to keep going.

  I clap my hands. “I’m ready.”

  He takes the empty plastic bag and zips it back into his backpack, ever mindful of his environment. Diego’s physicality makes it surprising when he acts so gently.

  Our shoes tap against the worn earth, killing the journey step by step. I smell musky man sweat in the air around me. Seeing the sign for the lodge, we slow to a walk, chests heaving. The sky has grown darker and darker with afternoon thunderheads, but they haven’t opened. If the sun was still beating down, there’s no way we could have made it so fast.

  He sprints the final steps to the top of the hill that overlooks the valley and parking lot. I join him and pause on the crest.

  I feel like a goddess watching her lands from heaven. About fifteen people are scattered between the spa and the idling bus, Genesis picking up the rear in a meandering saunter.

  Diego points to her and we laugh.

  “Someone fell asleep at the spa,” I quip.

  “She always does.”

  I nod and gesture toward the bus. “Time for the real world.”

  “Si. I’m fucking hungry.”

  “Me too.”

  What I’ve wanted most for the past hour was to eat and drink while sitting or lying down. This would be an excellent time for Katherine’s American TV shows and a seven-layer lasagna. But even though my body is screaming, I wonder if Diego and I will ever get time alone together again, like this.

  “I had a good day, Diego.” I try to communicate the truth of my feelings from my eyes to his.

  He doesn’t answer but he smiles. That’ll do.

  I start off downhill, heading toward the facilities to pee. He veers off the other way in his sister’s direction.

  As I’m washing my hands, I zombie-stare at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot, but the irises are clear and bright. My hair hides, flattened under my hat, a messy, wet bun poking out the back. Sunburn across the nose and cheeks and along the collarbone. Could be worse.

  When I go back out there, I’ll see everyone I saw this morning. It’s only been a few hours, but I’ve become a little different.

  Going home seems like a small, meaningless endeavor now that I’ve bathed in a secret healing lagoon with my friend Diego.

  12

  “You have to stop covering up. Dress like a woman!”

  “I don’t want to look like a slutty-gringa-creepy-teacher in front of my students,” I protest, even though I know my Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and jean shorts aren’t really a Friday night outfit.

  Genesis laughs in an exaggerated bird-song A-ha-haaa! and flips through my closet like she’s shopping at Marshalls, her smile floating on her full, pink mouth.

  She’s big, sweaty, and gorgeous in a shimmery yellow mini-dress that couldn’t be tighter if it was painted on. Her water-creature eyes stare out at me, and I’m dumbfounded by her unintentional intensity.

  Her straight, shallow nose widens at the sides and ends in a smooth, shiny curve a half-inch above her cupid’s bow lips. Pale brown freckles cover her nose and broad cheekbones like the Milky Way. Her hair is dyed brassy blonde and slicked back into a high ponytail so that I can see her black roots growing out. She is so different from Diego and so like him.

  “Cállate! You’re too young and beautiful to be creepy. Besides, wait until you see your students. Then you’ll know what slutty looks like,” she mutters.

  “Really?”

  “Aiii. Trust me, they’re not worried about you; they’re going to be drunk. Like us.”

  Genesis looks my face up and down, as is her habit when she’s standing close to me, and crosses her arms. Her nails are long, fake, and fuchsia.

  “Really?”

  She throws her head back laughing, with an item of clothing dangling from each hand. “Oh, you’re in for a surprise. It’s part of your culture shock, hay? What about this? I like this!” She holds up a watermelon-pink tube dress, but I snatch it away.

  “I can’t wear that roller-skating! My boobs will pop right out of it.”

  “At least you’d be showing something off.”

  “It’s been so long. My last boyfriend was into the whole academic-chic thing. You know, fitted pencil skirts, fitted turtlenecks, big pearls.”

  “Turtle necks? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Genesis is an exceptional party pal. I admire her ability to snap in and out of her professional and social selves so neatly. She showed up with a wine bottle filled with illegal, homemade guaro, which is a local drink made from sugarcane, and it’s a fucking kick in the pants. Guaro is a nationally produced spirit, but some families prefer the traditional, home-brew recipe that’s significantly stronger. That’s what we’ve been sipping tonight. I started feeling it about five seconds after the first swallow.

  The bathroom door opens, and Katherine steps out in a navy blue romper encrusted with rhinestones that glitter in the yellow light. Her hair hangs in loose curls the way mine never will.

  “Buena estilo, Katherine. Es de Coco?”

  Katherine nods and holds her finger up, like Wait a minute. She steps gingerly into the pair of sparkly, sky-high stilettos she picked up with the rest of her outfit at Coco Beach.

  “Ah!”

  I never realized how loud Genesis’s voice is. It clangs around in my ears like loose change.

  “I need jewelry. Something really juicy and shiny,” Katherine says, eyeing my collection. I wave her toward it.

  “Come on, we have to go soon!” Genesis is mixing and matching my separates now, chewing a piece of gum with big chomps as she picks my wardrobe apart.

  I start choosing jewelry with Katherine. She’s fastening a necklace of translucent ruby baubles that sit on her collarbone like a sleeping animal.

  “This color will look so good with your hair.” Genesis is holding a bright turquoise halter dress, her eyebrows raised. She’s got me.

  My hair has already been straightened so that it waterfalls down over my shoulders and back, and I imagine that I look like a mermaid from the Caribbean coast. I brush on MAC eyeshadow in a lustrous aqua-turquoise, then line my eyes with kohl so that I’m an electric-disco, Cleopatra mermaid.

  “I think you should wear these, too.” Genesis hands me a pair of beautiful black leather cowgirl boots with sturdy two-inch heels and gold-thread embroidered flowers. I’ve never been into country style, but they are magnificent.

  “I feel like your personal dress-up doll. Will they fit? There’s no way we wear the same size.”

  She looks me up and down and points to the boots.

  “They’re not mine. Put them on.”

  Yikes. I step into the boots and they actually fit.

  “Yes! You’re wearing those.” Katherine steps back to grab her phone and wobbles on her spindly heels. I’m relieved to know I’m not the only one whose head is feeling bubbly. Bobbly? Whatever. Genesis, whose volume knob has turned up a few notches, claps her hands and bobs her head forward.

  “I knew it! Go see yourself.” She actually shoves me toward the mirror.

  “All right, all right! No pushing!”

  My reflection: a sleek, marine-roller-cowgirl with tanned limbs and a scar on her left knee from a wipeout in fourth grade; a vintage pin-up girl with a tapered waist and nice curves.

  I haven’t dressed my body up in a while. I’d kinda f
orgotten about my female nature as a fertile being, physically designed to bear offspring and take in seed, shedding unutilized tissue and recreating it in an intrinsic loop. My Gender and Culture course in fourth year had turned me off of dressing like a delusional drone; exposing cleavage seemed almost desperate, too “frosh week.”

  Now, there is a strange power in my sexy silhouette. I have the shape of a superheroine, goddamn it.

  I admit I love feeling like a completely different person. I love the big, ghetto hoops in my ears, the boots that sound like I’m The Fucking Boss. Tonight I’m not the teacher but a rocking girl-woman with magic boots, fueled by liquid confidence. I feel more comfortable in this new skin than any I’ve worn before.

  The rink is a rainbow swirl of candy colors and disco lights. I’m held at the elbows on either side by a beautiful girl as my body flies effortlessly forward. We have strength in numbers.

  Genesis, Katherine, and I have linked arms, and I have to say I’m feeling the vibe. A childish giddiness bubbles up and out through my perma-smile. I’m a roller queen on fire, twirling in the dark, lit up in flashes when the mirror ball spins.

  I have a crush on the room, on this night! I don’t know what’s me and what’s the booze fairy, but I don’t care. I’ve let go.

  It’s hot, but the air feels so good on my bare shoulders when we move. That’s the power of nighttime. My skates pinch my baby toes, but I don’t want to stop. I feel like a music video star, a kid, a figure skater with a chiffon skirt floating behind her.

  “Look, there’s Jose!” Katherine points him out, giggling. “I said I would help him later…” She trails off warily, realizing Genesis is in earshot.

  I recognize the melody of “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” but the lyrics are in Spanish. Genesis is belting out the words, so I sing along with her in English.

  Her hair flies behind her as she rolls, and even in my guaro haze it’s a magic moment of realizing you’re just like someone who comes from another part of the world, realizing that you really didn’t know what you were missing.

  The bridge comes in, and she waves her arms in the air like seaweed undulating as the orchestra plays. The room reels behind her like a filmstrip.

  Packs of people are at the bar, smoke rising to the ceiling above them. I love the pink, purple, and turquoise flashes of party lights and the white LED strip that runs along the perimeter of the arena.

  Genesis gives us a quick wave, letting go, and skates off toward the bathrooms.

  Katherine extends her arm that’s been in my claw grip, and we stretch out like ice dancers, making a wide, slow lap around the rink. The plastic cherry ring she’s wearing digs into my palm.

  We are holding hands like children, like sisters. Our shared childhood comes back to me in pieces, like glinting sequins.

  “Remember our dance routines?” she yells.

  “I was just gonna say that!” I double over laughing, totally overreacting and throwing my body weight suddenly. Katherine wobbles on her skates.

  “Lia, don’t!” she shrieks.

  “Sorry! Guaro on wheels is not a good combo for me!” I call to her over the music.

  Trumpets. Shakira singing “Ciego, Sordomuda.”

  We’re in her parents’ backyard at a family party, seven or eight years old. Making up dances and practicing gymnastics. Katherine is skinnier than me and her hair falls like layers of silk; she is so light and full of energy that her feet barely touch the ground, like she could whip away in the wind. The same face grins at me and time flips forward again. How am I here? I close my eyes, trusting life, going with the flow.

  The rink is packed with sweating, glowing people. Neon angels in every direction. It’s not until I meet my smudgy reflection in the bathroom, rolling in and braking by clawing at the wall, that I remember I’m one of them. Wearing a glow stick around my head like a crown, like a goddess. No one notices me. I’m just another girl in the ladies’ room who needs to pee.

  In the stall I’m alone, staring down at my underpants.

  At the sinks, braless teenaged girls in tops that I think are actually lingerie shriek and chatter. They were entering as I turned my stall-door lock.

  In elementary school, I discovered that you can see lots through the long, forgiving openings of a bathroom stall door. Sitting there on your porcelain throne, you’ve basically got a front-row seat to gossiping flocks of girls lounging against the wall or gazing into the mirror, transfixed. One room for relieving yourself and for socializing? Too weird.

  I used to guess who was next to me by the shoes. I couldn’t help it. You can slice a girl up into ribbons of yellow-pink skin or green canvas slip-ons, but the brain pieces it all together.

  “Dios mío, es tan caliente!”

  “Ohhh,” grumbles a beasty voice – a girl being herself, confident clowning in an all-female space.

  “Ella lo va a joder.”

  A conscious, sober thought darts through the haze and pierces my reverie. Joder. I remember that from my naughty-Spanish phrase guide. (It came with the actual phrase guide!) Who’s fucking whom, now?

  I freeze, straining my ears. Grateful they’re drunk and I’m hidden. Jesus.

  “Estas loco, perra!”

  “Pensé que querías?”

  Like a reverse pervert, my left eye focuses with eerie clarity on the three figures orbiting the sinks.

  Genesis was right about my students. I didn’t recognize them at first, but I realize Joselyn and Elsa are among the girls primping at the mirror like pageant contestants. The third I haven’t met. She’s got a cutie-pie bob haircut and is wearing a blue sailor dress. There’s an anchor decal on the butt she’s turned her head to examine. Sailor Moon gives me the creeps.

  They seem too young to be dressed like women, to want to please the opposite sex so much that they lose themselves. Elsa can’t be more than sixteen, but she’s wearing a push-up bra barely hidden under a loose white tank top that’s more empty space than material. Her high-waisted, acid-washed jean shorts that cover less skin than most bikini bottoms reveal her plump, round bum. It’s just hanging out there.

  Even though I had my moments as a teen, it makes me sad to see it, and I’m glad when they roll out of the baño. Unexpectedly, an image of Diego looking at Elsa conjures itself in my mind and I sizzle, bitter and jealous. Flushing, I propel myself from the stall to the sinks and scrub my hands.

  I’ve been putting it out of my mind, but the truth is I’m disappointed that Diego isn’t here. I’m having such a great time. Why isn’t he here to party with us? Everyone’s here. Fucking Diego. It’s like popping a champagne cork – the blockage gives way and suddenly it’s sweet bubbles in your nose, running stickily over your hands, getting everywhere. Diego’s been set free inside me, and now I can’t keep up with him. What’s he doing tonight if he isn’t here? Who’s he with? How well does he know my jail-bait students? Gah! Mind over matter. I’m going to get another drink.

  An hour later my thighs are burning and my abs are killing me from laughing so hard. Everything is funny, everyone is so nice, the music is so awesome. My senses are melting together into a candy-land rainbow blob. It’s just so hard to stand up because my legs are shutting down, calling it a night. It works out because Genesis announces hoarsely that she has to go home. It’s too bad. I’m sauced, and she is so much fun.

  “You can’t go home! We are having the bessstime ever!”

  “I know, I know.” She gently removes my sticky palms from either side of her face.

  “And you made me wear the boots, and now I’m wearing them. For you!”

  “No you’re not, sweetie. You’ve got roller skates on,” she says, somehow sober. When did that happen? I look down and see that she’s right, of course. Genesis is Mrs. Organized. What time is it anyway?

  We’ve pulled over near the rink door so Genesis can call her husband. I feel so relaxed and I’m leaning my elbows behind me on the boards, arching my back and letting my head hang behind me
like I’m in hot yoga. I look at my upside-down surroundings and it’s all shoes, sandals, and boots off the rink. One flip-flopped foot crosses an ankle about ten feet directly behind me and I follow it up to a face. The eyes see mine and I yank myself up and turn around to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

  A rush sparks up my chest, and I see tiny white stars. Pistols firing. I take a deep breath to get oxygen-rich blood to my brain.

  It’s Diego, and he’s looking at me under the brim of his black cap.

  Ooga-chaka ooga-chaka thumps the speakers playing Blue Swede. This guaro is fucking crazy. My tongue has gone numb, and my hair may be a wild animal mess.

  I-I-I-I-I’m…

  A grin tumbles out; can’t help it. I quickly bite my lip in an attempt to pull it back in and run a hand through my hair self-consciously. It’s something normal-looking that I am still capable of doing. Maybe he’ll think I’m not as drunk as I am.

  Hooked on a feeling!

  He’s in a red t-shirt; of course he is. It may as well say, “Here I am! Here!” It beckons to me like the only light for miles. My heart pounds, but the stars have faded and I can see again. His eyebrows furrow and his beautiful mouth opens like he’s going to say something. The usual hardness in his eyes is lost, and instead there’s something soft, bouncy, unaffected. He’s leaning over a high table top, a beer dangling from his fingers, his eyes slow and red and lit up like lanterns. Watching me. God, it’s a sauna in here.

  I’m thinking he might walk over and talk to me, that he’s happy to see “gringa,” but he casts his eyes away and turns around. At once I feel agonized by simultaneous disappointment and lust as I catch glimpses of his broad, sloping shoulders and the subtle movements of his arms, wrists, and wide, calloused hands. I’m tired of not having him, goddamn it!

  “I think you should probably get those things off your feet before you fall on your ass again,” Genesis says matter-of-factly, scanning my face. I’m glad she can’t read my mind and see her brother doing some very adult things to me. She’s got her phone in one hand and the cowboy boots in the other, distracted and annoyed, the way a sober person surrounded by inebriated people usually looks. The phone flashes, a blue pulsing light, and she comes to life. “That’s my ride! I’ll see you Monday, Tica. You gonna be okay?”