Lessons in Pure Life Page 14

  “Yeah, I’ll go find Katherine.”

  “Katherine went home an hour ago, remember? Mierda. I can’t leave you alone.”

  “Yes, yes! Go. I don’t want to make you late. I’ll be fine! I want to go hang out with Jose, and he’ll drive me home. He said he was driving tonight.” I look at her earnestly and try to appear competent.

  She sighs and eyes me. “Okay. I just saw him go to the patio with a cigar in his teeth. Go find him. I’m going to make sure at least two people know where you are. And take those fucking skates off. I don’t want you to hit your head.”

  I swear this woman pounded back more than her share of a bottle of guaro mere hours earlier. The only clue she’s giving about her intoxication is the occasional curse. Genesis certainly lives up to her name; I wouldn’t mind if womankind started with someone like her.

  “You got it. I promise I’m not too drunk to be responsible.” I hope.

  “Good night.” She air kisses my cheeks and I slump into her shoulder awkwardly. Our skin sticks a little when we pull apart.

  When she’s gone, I steal a glance behind me to where Diego was standing, but he’s gone. He’s not to my left or my right either. My heart sinks, and suddenly I’m aware of how loudly the bass is bumping in my ears, in the cavity of my chest like a second pulse. My feet are throbbing; Genesis was right. The skates need to come off as soon as possible.

  Grasping the boards with my right hand, I roll gently toward the exit and walk-skate clumsily to a long wooden bench and sit with a thud. I gaze down at my thighs, which change from pink to purple to turquoise in the lights, and lean forward onto them, my breasts squishing with the pressure. It’s that time of night when the glamorous fanciness you arrived in, the perfect lip gloss and blended eye shadow, has melted or faded or smudged and there’s no turning back.

  Thankful that I tied the retro skates in appropriately retro loopy bows, I yank the laces and pull one foot loose and then the other. Oooh, I’m in Happy Foot Land, rubbing life back into my arches. I begin to search for my non-wheeled footwear when I recall the image of Genesis walking out with the boots pinched between her fingers. Shit! She was so insistent I take the skates off. I can’t wait to tease her about this on Monday. So she wasn’t sober after all; we both missed that one.

  I consider the roller skates, but there’s no way my feet are going back in there. Fuck it. I peel off my socks and embrace the coolness of the floor, standing up gingerly. It’s so strange to be out of the skates after wearing them for a few hours, and I feel about two feet tall in a funhouse of sensation and stimulus.

  I tiptoe like Barbie, with perma-heel feet, toward the SALIDA sign above the patio door, avoiding the gray patches of gum pressed into the cold, hard floor. When I exit the rink I’m hit with the heavy, heady scent of incense. Grungy Latin indie rock is playing from an outdoor speaker hooked to a worn extension cord that snakes through an open window. It sounds kind of like the Velvet Underground. What look like church pew benches line the wooden deck, and a few small round tables are scattered in the middle. A citronella torch burns at each corner of the yard, and a full, silvery moon hangs over the whole scene, completing the party postcard. I can’t help but gaze up at its startling, pale beauty. Moon-swoon. A strong whiff of cannabis hits me. I haven’t really smoked since I lived in student housing, but tonight it smells soothing and friendly.

  Looking half-heartedly for Jose, I squeeze through clumps of people standing, smoking, and laughing. I keep thinking I hear his laughter rising over the noise of chatter, but I’m looking in all directions and haven’t seen his warm, crinkly eyes or the blue-and-white-checkered Vans he always wears. Wandering off the deck into the balmy night, I Barbie-step around the side of the building in case Jose’s gone looking for me.

  When I round the corner it’s dark except for the glow of a tall glass candle, the kind you light at church. A crisp silhouette of La Negrita, the Black Madonna, floats on its surface. Dreamily, I move forward, sure and slow, forgetting everything except Diego sitting there.

  Alone in the flickering light he looks startled, his eyes glazed and bloodshot. He’s sitting on top of a worn picnic table, leaned up against the brick wall of the rink, his legs stretched out in front of him carelessly. A long, tapered joint smoulders between his fingers, and his forearm flexes like Bernini’s wet dream. Disco lights filter out of the window, and colors wash over him intermittently. I watch his eyes wander up and down my figure; I’m dripping in milky moonlight.

  “No shoes?” he asks hoarsely, interested. His voice is a deep, pleasant rumble.

  “Nope,” I say softly.

  I think something’s going to happen here. Sometimes, when I’m about to get bold, I get this sickly-tickly feeling all over my skin, as though I’ve been dipped in a cup full of Alka-Seltzer; that’s how I know this is real.

  Here we go. One bare foot steps in front of the other and again until I climb up on the table and sit next to him, crossing my legs at the ankle. We both look at my feet with their shiny gold polish, and I high-five my past self for having done a DIY pedicure. A few inches separate us and I can feel the heat of his body, as usual. Does he feel mine?

  Diego ashes his joint and then gestures with it, offering me a hit. I reach across my body with my left hand and our fingers touch as he passes it to me. Leaning my head back on the wall, I gaze down at the glowing tip and inhale deeply. I cough, and velvety smoke bursts out of my mouth; it’s been a while. I take another hit and hand it back to him. Our fingers touch again – his smooth and hard, mine small and soft – and this time the butterflies wake up properly, snapping me out of my moonlight trance. My face feels tingly from the weed, my tongue is numb from the alcohol, my insides are buzzing with excitement, and I’m alone with him, here, tonight. Not bad, Noble.

  “My sister asked me to make sure you get home all right,” he croaks, holding in the smoke and then exhaling in little oh puffs that send rings floating up above us.

  Thank you, Genesis!

  “You’re doing a great job.”

  He laughs softly, a sniff. Hands the joint back to me. This time his fingers linger on mine for a fraction longer. This is the first time we’ve touched since Arenal, eight days ago. He was in and out of school this week but mostly out, busy with a separate contract. Maybe I’m just dreaming it all and am actually sitting here alone, smoking nothing with no one. I don’t mind. If this is a fantasy, I have all the more reason to make it as lucid as possible.

  A deep sense of relaxation overcomes me as the weed starts to kick in. It suddenly seems light and easy to be kind, to open up to Diego a little more. I understand him a little better after our volcano adventure, and the butterflies in my stomach are slowing down, gliding on warm air currents rather than flapping in frantic circles. The guaro and weed seem to be working as a team to remove my inhibitions. I promise myself I’ll eat healthy all day tomorrow.

  It’s hard to tell whether two or ten minutes have passed, but the joint has become a cardboard filter floating in the dregs of an Imperial beer. Finally, I get the nerve to turn my head and look at him the way I’ve wanted to for so long. It’s dark and I feel safe. He stares into the flame that cuts lines into his face. He is a charcoal drawing except his lips are lit up, soft, pink-red and warm, a good fit for mine. Let me sit here for hours.

  “That for your mom?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is deep but mellow, dark, dripping gold.

  A quiet, compassionate voice finds its way through the chaos in my mind, nudging me to awareness. Pay attention.

  In my mind is an image of La Negrita with moonstone eyes and Genesis’s broad, shallow nose, staring out from the glass candle like Tinkerbell in a pirate-ship lantern.

  “Anarosa.”

  He smiles without looking at me. “That’s right.”

  He laces his fingers around the base of the candle. His cheeks are ruddy right below the bone when he turns and smiles at me. We’re locked in the energy that sparks between us. A fig
urative gear shifts; I can feel it. Casually, he takes his cap and turns it backwards in one motion, then puts the candle down. Nothing is as good as his broad back bending, moving beneath the thin, red fabric of his worn-in shirt. I’m glad I’m sitting because my knees would have failed; the backwards hat just kills me, does me the fuck in.

  “I bet you’re sick of talking about this,” he mutters.

  “Of course not,” I say easily. “I can’t promise I’ll be coherent tonight, but I’m a good listener.”

  The soft, washed cotton of his upper arm presses against mine, sending thrills water-sliding into my navel. He’s looking at me with intensity I’m not used to.

  “You look fucking pretty tonight, gringa,” he says like his voice is brandy slipping down my throat.

  My self-control wavers at the thought of wrapping all my limbs around him, going for it. There is momentum in the air around us. He’s close enough that I can smell him, remembering when I grasped his waist on the motorbike, inhaling the back of his neck, salty and sweet. It’s a pheromone fruit punch, and I think I’m about to be knocked out cold. Rainbow light pulses all around us. How can this be real?

  “Aiii!” someone shrieks from the patio, followed by laughter.

  “Dónde está Diego?”

  Jose’s voice. I feel unnecessarily alarmed, like if we get interrupted we’ll never get another chance.

  “Come on,” says Diego quickly, looking at me and then nodding at the ground like Let’s get the hell out of here. Before I can answer – as if I would say no – he hops off the table and blows out the candle.

  “I’ll be right back.” He jogs around the corner, leaving me wide eyed. I’m starting to think about my no shoes and how I’m getting home, and what if he leaves me here and Jose leaves too? The night’s cooled down. I guess I could call a cab; there’s cash in my bra. Glancing around nervously, I’m relieved to see I’m overthinking it – he’s already jogging back. He looks a lot more alive than when I found him.

  Diego turns his back to me, squats, and looks over his shoulder.

  “Get on.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have shoes and we have to cross the road – get on or get glass in your feet,” he states as though there’s no alternative, like Genesis does.

  I stand up in the grass and lean my weight on him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. For one scintillating moment we’re kids, giggling with the absurdity of the activity. Okay, maybe he isn’t giggling, but I can hear someone laughing, so it must be me. He is striding in big steps and it’s all happening so quickly. I bounce along, feel my dress riding up, unable to do anything about it. Another giggle slips out; I can’t help it.

  “This is just like the motorcycle!” I say loudly, and he winces.

  “Your mouth is right next to my ear.”

  “Oh, sorry! Sorry. Is this better?” I whisper the last sentence, and this time he grins widely.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” he whispers loudly back.

  For some reason this is so funny and I burst out laughing, gasping for air. Uh oh, the ungluing has begun. Does he think I’m a weirdo? His expression tells me otherwise, deep smile lines so close to me. I peer at him from my perch. He’s got tiny crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His surfer skin, rough and lined from salt and sun, is oh-so copper-gold, and I want to rub my own cheek on it.

  “So where are we going again?” I ask. My drunk-voice echoes in my head.

  “Just here, to the park. Tonight I’m the one responsible for your safety, so I had to take you away from those loud assholes,” he says lightly as we move together into a big, grassy area that I can just make out in the dark with the help of the moon.

  He approaches a small, shitty-looking playground in desperate need of a paint job. Dipping me under the monkey bars, making me shriek and giggle, he swings around and backs up to let me off on the humble play structure.

  I’m sitting comfortably on a ledge with my legs dangling down, and he’s facing me. A little out of breath, he takes air through his open mouth, and his eyes focus on me. They’re moving fast, like little fish darting around, but it’s his mouth I come back to. His lips are parted, ready, like an athlete pumped and cocky for his challenge. I see, now, that we are speaking the same words in a conversation of body language.

  Here, truth can come careening out into the air between us.

  13

  Insects buzz around us like we’re in a cave with them instead of outside under the stars. A moment ago everything seemed so funny, and now I’ve hit a wave of sobriety, or perhaps just clarity, the kind that can come even in states of deep inebriation. It isn’t just about the way he looks anymore. I like him. I think he’s funny and compassionate, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary.

  We face one another like opponents. He looks a bit mischievous and wild-eyed but we’re in it, finally tapped into the same dimension. I get curious.

  “So why is your English so good?” I lean back in the wood frame of the structure, propping my legs up on the opposite side. My calves flex and my skin shines in the silvery light. Diego looks from my legs to my face to my legs to the ground, then shoves his hands deeply into his pockets.

  “I learned from you, gringa.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He laughs. “Okay. Actually, my sister and I went to English school since we were kids, so it’s my second language.”

  “But you never spoke to me! The trip on your bike, the day at Hermosa, every day in class…”

  He makes an apologetic face with clamped teeth.

  “We’re a proud, Spanish-speaking country, and English is taking over. We’re losing our culture, and culture is important in my family and in this community. My father and Genesis argue about this all the time. She sees English as an opportunity, but it comes at a cost. We don’t want to lose what we have. I didn’t speak English to you then because I’m conflicted.”

  I nod slowly, reflecting. “I should have learned more Spanish before arriving.”

  “It’s not about that, Lia. You’re here to teach your language; I shouldn’t hold that against you. It’s just complicated. It’s a long story.”

  I can tell he’s done talking about it. I am too. Things have grown serious and my butt is asleep on the hard surface. I unfold my body gingerly and stretch, arching my back and letting my legs dangle. Diego watches me, still as a statue.

  I feel like changing the mood, and I point at a metal bar in the shadows to my right. “I used to be able to flip around on those things when I was young.”

  He looks to where I’m pointing and raises his eyebrows.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s true. I used to take gymnastics lessons when I was in elementary school and spend recess flipping on the bar.”

  “What’s recess?”

  “When there’s a break from class and kids get to go outside to play.”

  Diego nods, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

  “So can you do it?” he asks.

  “Flip on the bar?”

  “Si.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So try it.”

  “Now?”

  “Si.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “There’s only one way to know.” He winks and gestures to the bar I’ve foolishly drawn his attention to.

  Why did I bring this up? I’m going to flash him, or a big toot of gas will pop out of me like one of those spore-smoke mushrooms. The hazards of recreation.

  “This is a terrible idea,” I start to protest.

  “I’ll watch.”

  “Yeah, and that’s only part of the problem.”

  “Maybe you’re scared.”

  “I’m too smart for your mind games, muchacho. I just don’t want to hurt myself…” I look at him to see if he’s bought it, but it’s not looking good.

  “Muchacho? You got cojones, gringa.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I promise
, I won’t let you get hurt.”

  That’s what he says. Wait till I’m upside down and rotating in the dark. Against my better judgment, I hop off the climber and pad over to the bar, my feet sinking into the sand so I move sluggishly. The bar is cool when I place both palms over its surface.

  I turn back apprehensively to Diego, who’s walking toward me with a challenging grin. I might do anything for that grin.

  “Come on, gringa. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he says.

  He turns his baseball cap around so the brim is facing the front again and folds his arms over his chest, reminding me that my sex drive is alive and well. Mythic man with narrowed eyes and a slow smile.

  “If I fall on my head, Genesis will hurt you, you know.”

  “She can’t hurt me,” he chuckles, but we both know the truth. I wouldn’t want Genesis upset with me; no one would. She’d be too powerful, like an angry goddess.

  With the image of a goddess in mind and the familiar feeling of the bar in my hands, I jump up. Somehow, I’ve remembered how to put my body weight in my hips and balance them against the bar, flush with my hands at either side. I lean slightly forward to find a comfortable position. My wrists ache already – it’s been at least ten years since I’ve done this – but I’m exhilarated because I think I can still do it. It feels like magic. Diego moves so that he’s standing in front of me. I’m a little higher up than I would be standing flat on the ground, but he still towers over me.

  “Pride of the playground,” he whispers dramatically.

  “Don’t make me laugh!”

  “Sorry.”

  He gazes at me seriously for a few beats, then squints over my shoulder.

  “Shit! It’s the cops.”

  “What? What?!” I whip my head around in all directions. When I look back at him in bewilderment, he’s got one hand over his mouth, laughing silently.