Freshman Year (25 page)

“Oh, I'm sure he's not.” I say, but I feel my lies weighing me down again as we walk past him and into the kitchen.

“Water?” Keeta asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say as I look around. Unlike my house, there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no paintbrushes soaking on the counter, no paint palettes drying in the rack. There's a sense of order I hadn't known I longed for until I saw how possible it was. Every spatula, pot holder, and pan is in its place.

Even the little religious cards are in an exact straight line along the kitchen windowsill. I've never seen anything like them; they're like baseball trading cards of God and his posse. I don't recognize any, but one kind of looks like Santa Claus. One is upside down, but I have a feeling, since everything else is neat and tidy, that it's upside down on purpose.

“Do these all stand for something special?” I ask, pointing to the mini-army of religious folk.

Keeta stops filling my glass with water to look up. “
Claro que sí. Ay
, girl, you really aren't religious, huh?”

I give her a look that says,
Isn't it obvious?
so she puts down the glass and walks over.

“Okay. I'll explain. No need for the dagger eyes, Amara.” She comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my stomach, and since she's shorter than me, she rests her chin on my shoulder. She doesn't even seem at all worried that her grandma might find us like this, so I assume there is no one here. “The first one is Saint Sebastian. He's the patron saint of athletes. My
nana
got that one for me when I started to play basketball.”

Her face is so close to my neck that when she blinks, her long eyelashes lightly brush my skin like a butterfly's wing. I close my eyes and lose track of my body for a second.

“That's so sweet,” I finally say.

Next Keeta picks up the card with a young-looking woman on it. “This is Saint Cecilia. She watches over musicians.” She puts Cecilia down and points to the next one. “That's Saint Monica, patron saint of widows.”

I take note of that one. Maybe I can get one for my mom. I mean, just because we don't go to church doesn't mean Saint Monica can't protect her.

“The big guy in the middle,” Keeta continues, “is…well, I forget his name, but he's supposed to protect us from famine or arthritis or gangrene.” She laughs softly in my ear, sending goose bumps down my arms. “Something like that.” She holds up another one with a woman who kind of looks like she might have played basketball if she'd had the opportunity. “That's Joan of Arc. She's the patron saint of prisoners, which
Nana
got for my cousin in Texas.”

“Cool,” I say, but I'm kind of shocked because I've never known anyone who knew anyone in prison.

“This one,” she picks up the card of the one who looked like Santa. “This is Saint Nicholas.”

“Hey, I knew that.”

Keeta laughs on my neck again and I almost fall down. “I should hope so,” she says. “He's the patron saint of children.”

“Oh, I get it. What about that upside-down one?”

“That's Saint Anthony. You ask him to help you find things that are lost. You say a little prayer and then turn him over. My
nana
has had him turned over since her cat, Mamacita, ran away. It's been three years, but she still thinks Saint Anthony will help Little Mama find her way home.”

“Do you believe he will?”

Keeta lets me go, leans against the sink, and nods. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

I do, too, but I don't say it because I don't think I have any right to believe in Saint Anthony since I don't pray or go to church.

“Want to see my room?” Keeta asks.

“Sure.” I'm trying to act casual, but now my heart is doing double time.

Keeta hands me my glass of water and motions to me to follow her. We have to pass by the giant crucifix again, and I am sure my skin is going to sizzle.

Then we walk down a narrow hallway plastered with school pictures of Keeta. “If you laugh, you'll be sorry,” she says.

“Nice ruffles,” I say, and chuckle. “Did you pick that dress out yourself?”

“Yes, and now you will pay.” She grabs my hand to hurry me along.

I'm still admiring the photos when Keeta suddenly stops in front of a closed door. I walk into her, accidentally spilling half my water down her back. “Oh my God, I'm sorry.” I try to wipe it off with my hand.

But she's not mad. She just shakes her head and whispers in my ear, “
Ay,
Amara, there are other ways to get me out of my clothes. Be patient.”

Now I'm quietly gasping for air. What am I doing here? I mean, this isn't the instrument closet or the locker room where we sneak kisses between classes. It's her house; it's her private bedroom with a door and a lock and a bed. And now she's talking about taking her clothes off?

“Nana,”
Keeta says as she pushes the door open,
“estás despierta?”

Inside the room, a tiny Mexican woman is resting in a giant bed. She's covered with an intricately woven white blanket and is watching an evening soap opera on the Spanish channel,
Los Corazones Perdidos
(The Lost Hearts)
.
I recognize the program because
Señora
Cabrera assigns it for homework, which is pretty much the only assignment I have been keeping up with.

Keeta's grandma has a soft face and her hair is neatly kept together in a bun which looks like a cinnamon roll placed on her head.

Her grandma ignores us, so Keeta yells our arrival again.
“Nana!”

This time her grandma looks our way and smiles.
“Chiquita,”
her grandma says, and now I halfway know where the nickname Keeta comes from.
“Como estás, mija? Quién es la ni
ñ
a?”

I see Keeta's eyes in her grandma's, which are just as remarkable. I want to impress Keeta a little, so I introduce myself.
“Soy Abbey Brooks, señora. Mucho gusto. Su casa es muy bonita,”
I say loudly because she's obviously a little hard of hearing.

Her nana does seem impressed. “
Ay, la gringa habla muy bien.
It's very nice to meet you, Abbey
.
” Then she says something to Keeta that I can't translate.

“Mañana, Nana. Está bien?”

“Sí, sí…”
her
nana
says.

“
Vamos a estudiar en mi cuarto.
Do you need anything?” Keeta asks.

“A new hip,” Keeta's grandma says and smiles at me. I smile back.

“Ay, Nana,”
Keeta says, like her
nana
gets on her nerves as much as my mom does to me. “Call me if you need anything,” Keeta says to her
nana
then shuts the door. The volume of the television is muffled once more and Keeta takes hold of my hand again to lead me down the hall to her room.

“Make yourself comfortable, Amara.”

There's no place to sit except for her neatly made twin bed. I sit on its edge and try not to faint.

“What kind of music do you want to listen to?”

“I'm sure I'll like whatever you like,” I say, and while she flips through her CDs, I button up my blouse one button and look around. There's not much to see because Keeta's bedroom is nearly void of all decorations and personal items. Besides her five-drawer dresser, a guitar leans against the wall, and a well-used basketball waits in the corner. Like the rest of her house, everything seems to be exactly where it should be; it seems like if something is moved out of place, an alarm might sound. Then I think that she'd hate my room. It's way too frilly and jam-packed with books, furniture, and stuffed animals.

There is, however, one picture hanging above her bed. It's of two men standing in front of a tree, holding each other in a warm embrace. You can tell they are laughing at the photographer. It's in black and white and the composition is as perfect as the photos I've seen with my mom at the art shows downtown.

The Cranberries begin to play softly in the background, so I turn my attention back to Keeta. She's leaning against her dresser and smiling at me. “Not what you expected, huh?”

I look around again and say, “Well, it's not like I've been constantly thinking about what the lair of Keeta Moreno would be like or anything,” hoping she'll pick up on the subtle hint that I have indeed been wondering about the inside of her house. “It's nice in here. I like that picture.”

“Those are my uncles, David and Hugo,” she says. “
Que descanse en paz, Hugo
. Rest in peace.”

“Oh.” Now I feel bad for pointing it out. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She walks to her window to lower her blinds. Then she points at the younger one in the photo. “Hugo's kind of why I get what you mean about being pissed off at God.”

“What happened to him? I mean, if you don't mind me asking.”

“Well, I don't think you'll like the answer.” Then she walks over to me, slips off my sandals, and puts them next to her shoes by the door. I like how she takes care of me.

“Well, if you feel like telling me…”

She waits a second and looks again at the two men frozen in time on her wall. “He was killed.”

“Really? Was it a car accident?” To me, of course, a car accident is the worst way to lose someone.

“No, my sweet Amara, he was stabbed outside a bar in Hermosillo. See, they were lovers, not brothers.”

“That's awful,” I whisper.

She shrugs then picks up the basketball and spins it on her finger. “I took that picture.”

“It's art-gallery worthy,” I say. “And I would know after all the galleries my mom has dragged me to in my lifetime.”

“You think?” She drops the ball and kicks it over to the corner again. “I was only five when I took it. The last time I saw them was in Noggie during Christmas break when I was fourteen. Hugo was killed on New Year's Eve that same year.”

“Did they find out who did it?”

“All they know is what David remembers—that a couple of asshole guys followed them after they left the bar. They both got beat up, but Hugo didn't make it. They should've known better. They shouldn't have been so open, but that's just how they were. Damn, they were so in love.”

“Really?” My eyes feel hot, but I don't let them tear up.

“I used to want to be like them,” she says and then looks away. “You know, to be loved and to love someone as much as they loved each other.”

I repeat her words in my head—
I used to want to be like them
—and take it personally that she no longer wants to love someone like that anymore. I had planned on ignoring Garrett's advice and asking about Keeta's parents, but maybe I'll have to learn about Keeta in smaller doses.

“Anyway,” Keeta says, then shivers and opens her closet, “you got me totally wet, Amara.”

“Sorry I got you”—I clear my throat—“wet,” and now I'm back to freaking out. Who am I, and what am I doing sitting on Keeta's bed? Then I see her Hot Dog on a Stick uniform hanging on the back of the closet door and remember why I'm here. I want to be.

“Well, I've got to get out of this tank.
Perdón, mi amor
.”

“Go right ahead. I promise I won't watch,” I say then cover my eyes but spread my fingers apart.

She likes how I flirt because she's actually doing the blushing for once. “You've been hanging with Garrett too much, naughty girl.”

She turns away from me and pulls off her shirt revealing her mocha-brown back and a black lacy bra. I don't know why, but I didn't expect such a girlie bra. As she slips on a gray tank top, her biceps flex. Her arms look so strong, like they could hold me forever. Then she pulls at her hair band and lets her hair down. By the time she turns around to face me again, I'm practically drooling like a Great Dane.

“I guess you liked the free show?” she asks, then closes her bedroom door all the way and locks it.

That doesn't really bother me much because I like the privacy, but when she flips off the lights, I sit upright and lose any ounce of cool I thought I had.

“Hazte a un lado
,” she says softly, and I move over to give her some room on the small bed.

My heart starts beating fast, like Ringo Starr is playing drums in my chest. I'm positive she can hear my drum solo over her
nana
's
novela
blaring next door, so I almost apologize but stop myself. Be chill. Be mature.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I see Keeta's silhouette. She's leaning back on her elbows and looking at me.

“What?” I ask.

She reaches out to touch my cheek. “You don't have to be afraid, Amara. We can take things slow.”

“Slow,” I say with a hint of doubt because I'm beginning to think our ideas of slow are slightly different. “I'm not afraid.” My biggest lie ever.

“Good.” She takes my hand and pulls me over to her, wrapping her arms around me like I have wished for on so many nights. As we lie there, I relax into her, but not too much, so she won't feel how fast my heart is going. “Now,” she says, “you wanted to get to know me better…well, ask away. I am an open book.” She brushes aside my hair and snuggles so close that when she says, “First question, please,” I can feel her lips on my neck.

I caress her back with my hand because it feels right, and then I pull her body closer. Our legs are wrapped around each other like tree roots and I am incredibly glad I shaved this morning. “So, you like to play basketball?” I ask.

“Um,” she whispers, kisses each of my cheeks, and then nibbles on my earlobe.

“Yeah, I like to play a lot of basketball.
Y tú
?”

“Yeah, me, too,” I think I say, though now I'm feeling too fuzzy to speak coherently. Next, Keeta gently bites me where my neck and shoulder meet. I moan very quietly, even though I don't mean to, and suddenly I am the most religious person ever. I have died and gone to Keeta Heaven.