and seemed afraid of every little lizard, every mound of ants, every rooster’s crow. Butafter a few days he started talking more, laughing and yelling louder than the chickens. He caught lizards with his hands, dug up anthills with sticks, and told me stories, mostly about Amherst County—about the apple festival and the grocery stores with cold cow’s milk in giant refrigerators. He’d never even tasted the powdered kind. When I showed him the can of Klim, he laughed and said, “That ain’t milk! Whatever that is, it didn’t come out of no cow, no goat either. Ain’t you never seen a goat suckle its baby?” I had, but I never really thought about cow’s milk until he told me.
“Zuck—zuck—zuck.” He puckered his lips and sucked his cheeks. “It’s like that.” The wet redness of his tongue peeked out between his lips. An unexpected flutter caught beneath my ribs, and I went hot and cold. Sometimes, when I sat next to him, I felt funny like that—sweaty and frozen, like eating a piragua .
“Zuck—zuck—zuck.” This time he crossed his eyes, and I laughed myself to tears.
Blake told me things I’d never known, and it wasn’t like with Omar. He wasn’t trying to be better than me. I could tell because I told him things too, and he listened. Like how to eat a passionfruit by cutting the top off and using a slice of sugarcane to spoon out the slippery seeds. Nothing tasted better in the world. Crunchy and smooth, sweet and sour. Blake and I ate almost the whole tree by ourselves. Omar didn’t like them, which suited us just fine.I liked being with Blake, just Blake. In my journal, I wrote down every story he told me so I could read it later and remember.
“Y OU WANT TO go swimming in the creek?” Omar asked one sticky afternoon.
Blake and I sat on the porch, licking passionfruit jelly off our fingers. Papi worked the farm, and Mamá lay inside, fat and lazy, watching the telenovelas with her feet up. That’s all she did anymore.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said.
Omar rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask you, skunk-girl.” He turned to Blake.
There weren’t any skunks in Puerto Rico, but Papi took me to see the movie Bambi at the cine hall a few years back. I knew what Flower looked like, and I tried to smooth back the black fuzzies at my temples, the blond ones in my ponytail. I didn’t care if Omar called me a skunk, but when he said it in front of Blake, it stung.
“I don’t know.” Blake eyed me. “Why can’t we all go swimming?”
Omar turned to me and narrowed his eyes under the lip of his cap. “I don’t want to swim with Verdita. She’ll make the water smell like caca . Skunk-girl.”
“Shut up. I don’t smell like caca . Butthead,” I said. Blake had taught me English curse words, and I liked being able to use them with Omar—so he’d know I knew a thing or two.
“You do. All skunks stink! And you sure do look like a skunk to me.” He laughed and gave Blake a punch to the arm.
“You stupid. Idiota,” I said. He deserved both the English and the Spanish version.
Omar leaned forward like he was going to lay into me. I dug my heels into the ground, ready for it, but Blake interrupted, “My sister, Patsy—she bought a box of color from Safeway and dyed her hair exactly like Verdita’s, only opposite—black at the end and blond at the top. I liked it. She’s a beatnik. My ma and pa said she had to dye it back, so she left. That way she don’t have to do what they say.”
Omar pulled his cap over his eyes and picked the brown edges of a scab.
“You have a sister?” I asked. It was strange to think of him as a brother.
“She says she ain’t never coming home ‘cause she hates my pa,” he went on. “He calls her a slut. I ain’t seen her in three years.” He stuck a piece of gutted passionfruit in his mouth and chewed.
Omar and I looked at him, but neither one of us said anything. The air moved through my nose, through the blades of grass across the
“Zuck—zuck—zuck.” He puckered his lips and sucked his cheeks. “It’s like that.” The wet redness of his tongue peeked out between his lips. An unexpected flutter caught beneath my ribs, and I went hot and cold. Sometimes, when I sat next to him, I felt funny like that—sweaty and frozen, like eating a piragua .
“Zuck—zuck—zuck.” This time he crossed his eyes, and I laughed myself to tears.
Blake told me things I’d never known, and it wasn’t like with Omar. He wasn’t trying to be better than me. I could tell because I told him things too, and he listened. Like how to eat a passionfruit by cutting the top off and using a slice of sugarcane to spoon out the slippery seeds. Nothing tasted better in the world. Crunchy and smooth, sweet and sour. Blake and I ate almost the whole tree by ourselves. Omar didn’t like them, which suited us just fine.I liked being with Blake, just Blake. In my journal, I wrote down every story he told me so I could read it later and remember.
“Y OU WANT TO go swimming in the creek?” Omar asked one sticky afternoon.
Blake and I sat on the porch, licking passionfruit jelly off our fingers. Papi worked the farm, and Mamá lay inside, fat and lazy, watching the telenovelas with her feet up. That’s all she did anymore.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said.
Omar rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask you, skunk-girl.” He turned to Blake.
There weren’t any skunks in Puerto Rico, but Papi took me to see the movie Bambi at the cine hall a few years back. I knew what Flower looked like, and I tried to smooth back the black fuzzies at my temples, the blond ones in my ponytail. I didn’t care if Omar called me a skunk, but when he said it in front of Blake, it stung.
“I don’t know.” Blake eyed me. “Why can’t we all go swimming?”
Omar turned to me and narrowed his eyes under the lip of his cap. “I don’t want to swim with Verdita. She’ll make the water smell like caca . Skunk-girl.”
“Shut up. I don’t smell like caca . Butthead,” I said. Blake had taught me English curse words, and I liked being able to use them with Omar—so he’d know I knew a thing or two.
“You do. All skunks stink! And you sure do look like a skunk to me.” He laughed and gave Blake a punch to the arm.
“You stupid. Idiota,” I said. He deserved both the English and the Spanish version.
Omar leaned forward like he was going to lay into me. I dug my heels into the ground, ready for it, but Blake interrupted, “My sister, Patsy—she bought a box of color from Safeway and dyed her hair exactly like Verdita’s, only opposite—black at the end and blond at the top. I liked it. She’s a beatnik. My ma and pa said she had to dye it back, so she left. That way she don’t have to do what they say.”
Omar pulled his cap over his eyes and picked the brown edges of a scab.
“You have a sister?” I asked. It was strange to think of him as a brother.
“She says she ain’t never coming home ‘cause she hates my pa,” he went on. “He calls her a slut. I ain’t seen her in three years.” He stuck a piece of gutted passionfruit in his mouth and chewed.
Omar and I looked at him, but neither one of us said anything. The air moved through my nose, through the blades of grass across the
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