From What I Remember (25 page)

’ve seriously never eaten this much before,” I tell Max.

“I am a beached whale.”

“I feel you, sister,” Max responds.

“You ‘feel me, sister’? Who are you, Snoop Dogg?”

“What? I’m too white to talk like that?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m too white to talk like that and I’m half Latina.”

“Kylie, there’s something you don’t know about me.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m only white on the outside. Underneath, I’ve got a dark, hip, urban rapper center. I’m like a vanilla Tootsie Pop.”

“You’re more like a Blow Pop. With a bright, chewy bubble gum center.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s offensive. I’m not crazy about the image.”

“Better than being a dumb jock.”

Max raises an eyebrow at me. I know he worries that he is a dumb jock, or that people only see that side of him.

“You’re not one, by the way,” I say. And I mean it. I feel bad for even introducing the subject. I don’t think he’s a dumb jock. Maybe a few hours ago, but not now.

Max and I are lying in a neon orange hammock, strung from two palm trees in Manuel’s backyard, having just finished what seemed like a fifteen-course meal. If I had to write this scene, I’m not sure I’d be able to do it and make it believable.
The school loner and the school heartthrob are pressed together on a hammock, high above the harbor in Ensenada, swinging to the gentle sounds of salsa and cicadas. His foot rests on hers, her shoulder pushes into his.

It sounds so cheesy, even
I
don’t buy it. And it’s currently happening to me.

Somewhere between my second cup of sangria and a long session of singing Beatles songs with Manuel, Max, and a guy named Fresco, Max and I fell onto the hammock. And little by little, our limbs began to intertwine, as if by some will of their own. I’m still thinking about my dad, but less and less. A little girl named Felipa, dressed in a Spider-Man costume, crawled into the hammock with us. She curled up at our feet and fell asleep.

This is probably the closest, physically, I’ve ever been to a boy other than Jake or Will. So far, it’s all pretty innocent, except for a few mildly scandalous thoughts (I’m sure only on my part). Thanks to a nice sangria buzz that I’ve managed to keep going by pacing myself, I’m not nervous. At all. I am wondering what happens next, though.

“I’ve eaten Mexican food my whole life and never once had turkey
mole
. Are you sure it’s the national dish of Mexico?” Max asks a woman sitting on the grass nearby. They’ve been having an on-and-off conversation for the past few minutes. I’ve been listening in.

“I’m sure. I teach history in high school,” she tells Max.

“Well, then, I guess you’d know. I always assumed it was tacos or burritos,” Max says.

The woman laughs. There’s that easy rapport again. Hanging around Max, I think a little has rubbed off on me. I’ve been chatting it up with everyone here, as if that’s what I normally do.

As Max talks to the woman, I study his face, committing every detail to memory. I may not pass this way again. His thick, wavy locks are the color of straw. His eyebrows arch perfectly and then taper down ever so subtly. He has a tiny mole on his left ear, right above his earlobe. And he has lovely long eyelashes that make him look like he’s always slightly sleepy.

I hear a click.

“This one’s definitely going in,” Max says, pointing at his iPhone. He’s been taking pictures since we got to Mexico. He’s creating an album as a kind of record of the trip. He shows me a photo of a baby gecko clinging to the side of the tree where the hammock is hung. The gecko is looking right into the camera, completely ready for his close-up. It’s really a brilliant shot.

“Let me see what you’ve got so far,” I say, taking his phone. He’s been clicking away, but I’ve barely seen anything he’s taken.

I scroll through the photos. There are so many of me, it’s a little freaky—mostly when I wasn’t aware he was taking them. I can’t help wondering what Lily will think if she sees them.

There’s one of me standing in the bus station, pissed. One of me driving the truck, with my hair whipping in my face, the window down. One of a road sign with an image of a giant rotisserie chicken dripping juice into the mouth of a man. Each picture is artistically angled, deliberate and striking. A perfectly captured moment. Max is way talented. I know it’s condescending, but I’m surprised by this revelation.

“That’s a keeper too,” Max says, peering over my shoulder to look. It’s a photo of me wearing my dad’s yellow soccer jersey. Number twenty-seven. Manuel gave it to me, and I’ve been wearing it ever since.

“I don’t know. I think I look fat.”

“Why do girls always say that? You do not look fat.”

“My arm is bulging out there, and I look like I have a double chin or something.”

“You look great. Even in a thirty-year-old soccer jersey.”

Because of the way he says it, I believe he means it.

I turn the phone around and snap a picture of the two of us. We both stare at the shot. It’s just our faces tilted toward each other. Neither of us is smiling, but we look relaxed and comfortable. Good together. It’s almost too intimate; something about it makes me feel awkward. I’m about to say something snarky to diffuse the moment, but I change my mind when I turn toward Max. He’s staring at me so intensely, I swallow my words.

It hits me hard how attracted I am to him. And not just because he’s gorgeous, which is undeniable. I’m liking the whole package, much to my surprise. He’s not an asshole. It’s funny I couldn’t see it. Makes me wonder how often I’m missing stuff. Or maybe it’s just that Freiburg brings out the worst in people.

We’re friends now, I guess. The way hostages bond during capture, maybe. How long it will last, once we’re free, remains to be seen. But right here, right now, this feels right. It’s just too trippy to even make sense of. He was always the arrogant, silver-spooned, dim-witted jock that ruled the school as a result of his good looks and good fortune. I don’t know how to square that image of him with the Max I’m with now, the smart, funny, kind Max. Was he there all along? Or is it just a temporary deviation from form, a Mexican morphing effect? I think about all the times I watched him strut around campus with his arm draped over Lily’s shoulder, looking so entitled and cocky, and my infatuation deflates a little.

“You always seemed like such an arrogant prick. How is it that you’re not really like that?” Even I’m surprised that I just said that. Nice work. Really subtle. I’m destined to be single forever.

“I’m sure you mean that in the best possible way.” Max laughs. “You always seemed like a psychopathic loner. How is it that you’re not like that?”

“Is that really what you thought of me?” That stings. Is that what I’m putting out there?

“Not really. To be honest, I didn’t think much about you, Kylie. I was into my boys, Lily, and squash. I didn’t have much interest in anything else. Which I guess makes me kind of an arrogant prick. The moral of the story is, always go with your first impressions.”

“You said it.”

“That’s kinda splitting hairs. You said it ten seconds ago.”

“I qualified it.”

“Yeah, but you were hedging. You think I hang out with assholes, so I must be an asshole.”

“No comment,” I say, because, why bother? We’ll never find common ground on this issue.

“You act like you hate everyone. Except Will. And these are people you’ve never spent any time with. So how do you know they’re such jerks?”

“Those were your words, not mine. I don’t hate everyone. It’s just, I don’t find your crowd particularly interesting.”

“But it’s not like you’ve tried with any of us.”

How did I manage to turn what was a perfectly lovely, intimate moment into something closer to an argument? I have a real skill at driving people away. Like father, like daughter.

“It’s not like anyone’s tried with me, either. I know you say Charlie’s a great guy, but I’ve just never seen it. He practically called me trailer trash on the squash court the other day.”

“Yeah. That was way off base, knee-jerk. He was just defending me. He gets pretty territorial about friends. He’s like a big bear, loyal to the core. He once beat the shit out of a squash player who called me a guido fag after I beat him eleven–zero in three straight sets.”

“You’re Italian?”

“That wasn’t really the point of the story.”

“It’s just, you don’t look Italian. And Langston doesn’t sound Italian.”

“My mom’s half Italian. Her last name is Gradassi. I guess the guy knew that somehow. Anyway, the thing is, Charlie is a good guy. You would like each other if you actually hung out.”

“’Kay. If you say so.” I seriously doubt it.

“Look, you’re right, plenty of people at Freiburg are dicks. Like Richie Simson and Lacey Garson. Even I don’t love hanging with some of them. But you can’t just write off most of the class.”

I’d like to agree to disagree, but if I don’t offer more than that, it ends here. We never go into deeper waters, we never get close to bridging the chasm. We’ve come this far, might as well travel the rest of the way.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s easier for me to write people off instead of getting to know them. And then having to deal with them. And their stuff. And my stuff. And all the other stuff that goes along with that.” I’m rambling now. I should stop, but I don’t. I keep going, much to my chagrin. “With Will, I know what to expect. He doesn’t judge me. I don’t judge him. And, honestly, I don’t really want people judging me, and I feel like Freiburg is a really judgmental place.” As soon as I’ve vomited it all out, I regret it. It sounds incoherent and psychobabbly. I feel pathetic and defenseless.

Max looks at me for a moment, quiet. What’s he thinking? That I’m even more of a head case than he thought?

“I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve stopped making sense.…”

“No. I get it. We all do it,” Max says.

“Not all of us. Only the most screwed up of us.”

“Everyone’s screwed up. Just in different ways.”

Maybe I don’t have to be afraid of him, now or when we get back. Maybe he is actually a good guy. Maybe I’ll see him again after Mexico. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

“There’s not a lot wrong with you, Kylie, from my perspective,” Max says.

“I wish I had your perspective.” I pull myself up and out of the hammock.

“Where you going, Flores?”

“I’ve gotta pee,” I say. And I also don’t want to talk about this anymore. I no longer have the urge to go the distance. I’ve already over-shared too many times today.

“Well, have a good one. Come back soon. We’ll miss you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and the snoring child at my feet? Me and the gecko? Take your pick, Flores.”

“Are you drunk, Max?”

“I’m getting there. And what about you? Why aren’t you blasted? You’ve never even drunk before, and here you are, all composed.”

“I’m pacing myself. That, and I’m superhuman.”

“Can you grab me another beer? You can carry me home, Catwoman.”

“Back to La Jolla, on my shoulders.”

Max smiles goofily. I smile back at him. The lightness is back. Max resurrected it from the dead. He’s got a gift.

I have a quick pee, grab Max a beer, and find myself wanting to return to him after only a few short minutes apart. I think I’m getting a little too attached. Will is going to be here soon, and this fairy tale will come to an abrupt end. I should gird myself for that reality, but instead, realizing how limited our time is together, I want to ask him a million questions. I want to spend what little time we have left together lying in the hammock. I head back outside, toward Max. I’m going to have to fit a lifetime into the next few minutes. Unfortunately, when I get back to the hammock, Max is passed out. The little girl and the gecko are gone. Max looks too beautiful, sleeping peacefully, slowly swinging back and forth in the breeze, to wake him. I gingerly climb into the hammock, slide in beside him, and stare up at the darkening sky, wishing we had more time, wishing this wasn’t the end but the beginning. But what’s the point of that?

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I know, I see a man leaning over Max, planting a kiss on his lips.

Before I can react, Max opens his eyes, screams, “What the—?” bolts upright, and knocks us both out of the hammock and onto the ground.

“Hey, guys!”

We look up to see Will standing above us waving and laughing. He’s wearing…overalls? Striped denim overalls? Come again?

“What the hell was that, man?” Max asks Will.

“Just saying hello. Seemed like the best way to wake you, sleeping beauty.”

“Will…” I scold.

“Don’t worry. What happens in Mexico, stays in Mexico,” Will says.

“Shit, that was messed up, dude,” Max says.

I stand and give Will a hug. “I’m glad you made it!” I say, wishing he hadn’t gotten here yet.

“Barely. Just by the skin of my chinny chin chin. But that’s a story for later. Much,” Will says.

With the abrupt arrival of Will, whatever spell was beginning to form between Max and me has dissipated, and now I’m back to feeling a little awkward.

“This town seems like party central. We should check it out,” Will says.