stared out the window.
After forty minutes of this nightmare, Poppa pushed his plate away.
“Oye,” he said, “tú.”
I looked up.
“Why you wan’ fock my baby daughter?”
* * *
Sure, I trembled for a while after that. I got it, I really did. But did good sense overtake me? What do you think? I was full-on into the Romeo and Juliet thing, and she was even worse. Parents—you want to ensure your daughters marry young? Forbid them from seeing their boyfriends. Just try it.
“Uncle Arnie,” as big, dark Captain Arnulfo was called in Cuca’s house, started hanging around. A lot. I wasn’t, like, stupid. I could tell what was what—he was sussing me out. He sidled up to me and said dumb things like “You like the sexy?” Pope and I laughed all night after Uncle Arnie made his appearances. “You make the sexy-sexy in cars?” What a dork, we thought.
My beloved showered me with letters. I had no way of knowing if my own letters got to her or not, but she soon found an Internet café in Nogales and sent me cyber-love. Popo was drying up a little, not quite what you’d call sober, but occasionally actually on the earth, and he started calling me “McLovin’.” I think it was his way of trying to tone it down. “Bring it down a notch, homeboy,” he’d say when I waxed overly poetic about his sister.
One Saturday I was chatting online with Amapola. That’s all I did on Saturday afternoons. No TV, no cruising in the car, no movies or pool time. I fixed a huge vat of sun tea and hit my laptop and talked to her. Mom was at work—she was always at work or out doing lame shit like bowling. It was just me, the computer, my distant girlie, and the cat rubbing against my leg. I’ll confess to you—don’t laugh—I cried at night thinking about her.
Pope said I was whipped. I’d be like, that’s no way to talk about your sister. She’s better than all of you people! He’d just look at me out of those squinty Apache eyes. “Maybe,” he’d drawl. “Maybe…” And I was just thinking about all that on Saturday, going crazier and crazier with the desire to see her sweet face every morning, her hair on my skin every night, mad in love with her, and I was IM-ing her that she should just book. Run away. She was almost seventeen already. She could catch a bus and be in Phoenix in a few hours and we’d jump on I-10 and drive to Cali. I didn’t know what I imagined—just us, in love, on a beach. And suddenly, the laptop crashed. Just gone—a black screen before Amapola could answer me. I booted back up, not thinking much about it, but she was gone. Completely. I couldn’t even find her account in my history. That was weird, I thought. I figured it for some sort of computer glitch, cursed and kicked stuff, then I grabbed a shower and rolled.
When I cruised over to Aunt Cuca’s, everyone was gone. Only Uncle Arnie was left, sitting in the living room in his uniform, sipping coffee.
“They all go on vacation,” he said. “Just you and me.”
Vacation? Pope hadn’t said anything about vacations. Not that he was what my English profs would call a reliable narrator.
Arnie gestured for me to sit. I stood there.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“No thanks.”
“Sit!”
I sat.
I never really knew what the F Arnie was mumbling, to tell you the truth. His accent was all bandido. I often just nodded and smiled, hoping not to offend the dude, lest he freak out and bust caps in me.
“You love Amapola,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He smiled sadly, put his hand on my knee.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He nodded. Sighed.
“Love,” he said. “Is good, love.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You not going away, right?”
I shook my head.
“No way.”
“So. What this means? You marry the girl?”
Whoa. Marry? I…guess…I was going to marry her. Someday.
Sure, you think about it. But to say it out loud. That was hard. But I felt like some kind of breakthrough was happening here. The older generation
After forty minutes of this nightmare, Poppa pushed his plate away.
“Oye,” he said, “tú.”
I looked up.
“Why you wan’ fock my baby daughter?”
* * *
Sure, I trembled for a while after that. I got it, I really did. But did good sense overtake me? What do you think? I was full-on into the Romeo and Juliet thing, and she was even worse. Parents—you want to ensure your daughters marry young? Forbid them from seeing their boyfriends. Just try it.
“Uncle Arnie,” as big, dark Captain Arnulfo was called in Cuca’s house, started hanging around. A lot. I wasn’t, like, stupid. I could tell what was what—he was sussing me out. He sidled up to me and said dumb things like “You like the sexy?” Pope and I laughed all night after Uncle Arnie made his appearances. “You make the sexy-sexy in cars?” What a dork, we thought.
My beloved showered me with letters. I had no way of knowing if my own letters got to her or not, but she soon found an Internet café in Nogales and sent me cyber-love. Popo was drying up a little, not quite what you’d call sober, but occasionally actually on the earth, and he started calling me “McLovin’.” I think it was his way of trying to tone it down. “Bring it down a notch, homeboy,” he’d say when I waxed overly poetic about his sister.
One Saturday I was chatting online with Amapola. That’s all I did on Saturday afternoons. No TV, no cruising in the car, no movies or pool time. I fixed a huge vat of sun tea and hit my laptop and talked to her. Mom was at work—she was always at work or out doing lame shit like bowling. It was just me, the computer, my distant girlie, and the cat rubbing against my leg. I’ll confess to you—don’t laugh—I cried at night thinking about her.
Pope said I was whipped. I’d be like, that’s no way to talk about your sister. She’s better than all of you people! He’d just look at me out of those squinty Apache eyes. “Maybe,” he’d drawl. “Maybe…” And I was just thinking about all that on Saturday, going crazier and crazier with the desire to see her sweet face every morning, her hair on my skin every night, mad in love with her, and I was IM-ing her that she should just book. Run away. She was almost seventeen already. She could catch a bus and be in Phoenix in a few hours and we’d jump on I-10 and drive to Cali. I didn’t know what I imagined—just us, in love, on a beach. And suddenly, the laptop crashed. Just gone—a black screen before Amapola could answer me. I booted back up, not thinking much about it, but she was gone. Completely. I couldn’t even find her account in my history. That was weird, I thought. I figured it for some sort of computer glitch, cursed and kicked stuff, then I grabbed a shower and rolled.
When I cruised over to Aunt Cuca’s, everyone was gone. Only Uncle Arnie was left, sitting in the living room in his uniform, sipping coffee.
“They all go on vacation,” he said. “Just you and me.”
Vacation? Pope hadn’t said anything about vacations. Not that he was what my English profs would call a reliable narrator.
Arnie gestured for me to sit. I stood there.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“No thanks.”
“Sit!”
I sat.
I never really knew what the F Arnie was mumbling, to tell you the truth. His accent was all bandido. I often just nodded and smiled, hoping not to offend the dude, lest he freak out and bust caps in me.
“You love Amapola,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He smiled sadly, put his hand on my knee.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He nodded. Sighed.
“Love,” he said. “Is good, love.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You not going away, right?”
I shook my head.
“No way.”
“So. What this means? You marry the girl?”
Whoa. Marry? I…guess…I was going to marry her. Someday.
Sure, you think about it. But to say it out loud. That was hard. But I felt like some kind of breakthrough was happening here. The older generation
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