Sammy and Juliana in Hollywood (17 page)

She looked at me. “He’s not so different from Hollywood boys. He tried to kiss me.”

“You shoulda let him,” I said. “Mighta been fun.”

“I’m not a puta, you know. You’re a pinche.”

“No one said you were a puta. A little kiss on a date, what’s the big deal? Especially on a date.” I handed her the sundae she’d ordered. I put extra pineapples. On the house. She loved pineapples. Genetic memory. A Mexican thing. Like the Aztec greeting. She took it and walked away. Then she turns around and says, “He wasn’t that special.”

“I know that,” I said. All of Las Cruces knew that.

Pissed her off. Really did. I looked at Angel, handed her an ice cream cone.

“I didn’t order this,” she said.

“On the house,” I said.

“OOUUH, big man.”

I just looked at her. I’d never heard her pop off before. “You’re hanging around Gigi too much.”

“Gigi didn’t give me a voice, you know? I had one before Gigi.”

Fair enough. I nodded.

“Keep the ice cream,” she said. She handed it back to me.

“Your friend’s waiting for you,” I said. I did that Aztec thing with my chin. I couldn’t help but watch her as she walked away.

I paid for the ice cream cone I’d made for Angel. Ate it. Good. I liked ice cream. And right then I was thinking that I was more hungry for ice cream than I was hungry for girls.

Appetites came and went. Like a spring wind.

Quitting time that evening, I decided to walk home. I called my dad, told him I was walking. Just felt like it. “Just like your mother,” he said. “She loved to walk.” As I was walking up Lohman, a car passes me. Stops.
Nice car. Mustang. Brand spanking new. Absolutely. A beauty. Cherry red. Baby, baby, baby—that was a real car. And Jaime Rede pops his head out. “Sammy! Wanna ride?” He was all smiles. Acted like he was my best friend. I’d known him since I was four. He’d been pissed off for all of the thirteen years I’d known him. And now, now he was all sunshine and lollipops like that dumb 45 Elena played over and over on her record player. I hated that song. Now, Jaime was trying to be my friend. Or maybe he was on pot. Mota. Maybe that put him in a good mood and made him act like that song Elena liked so damned much.

I gave him the Aztec greeting. That chin thing. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll take a ride.” I liked the car. When I got to the car I looked at his eyes, to see if they were red. Nope. Not dilated. Normal. Didn’t look like he was smoking weed. There were guys at school—you knew. You just knew. Then I saw who was driving. I shouldn’t have been that surprised. “Ese, Sammy.”

“What is it, Eric? What is it?” I repeated myself sometimes. If I wasn’t happy. Like saying something twice made it sound like it was more real.

He nodded to the song on the radio, keeping the beat. René always said that—you gotta keep the beat. Keep it in your head. Fine, fine, yeah. Except I hated
The Who.
Liked
Chicago.
Loved
Blood, Sweat, and Tears.
Loved brass. Hated
The Who
—but it was
The Who
that was on the radio. And Eric nodding to the music. Keeping the beat. “Órale, Sammy, ¿qué dices, Sammy?” I hated that. Talking to me in Spanish. Fry. Eric Fry. I knew English. Knew it better than he did. I know for a fact he’d never read
Great Expectations.
God, that boy was white. I don’t mean that he was just a gringo. I mean his skin. God, it was white.

“Nothing,” I said, “just comin’ home from work.” I wanted to ask him if he knew what that was. I knew he hadn’t paid for the Mustang
he was driving. Just like that Adam guy Gigi had gone out with. Knew where Eric lived, too. In those homes in Mesilla Park Eddie’s father had built. Work. Can you spell it? It starts with a W, ends with a K. K as in suck. I nodded, smiled. “Just comin’ home from work,” I said again. “You?”

“Nada, nada,” he said, “no hay nada que hacer.” I mean, his accent was perfect. Spoke like a native of Chihuahua. That’s what pissed me off. Here he was, this rich gringo, nice looking, sort of, if that was your type, had everything, was nice to everybody, the works, the whole package—and everybody thought he was so fucking far-out and groovy because he spoke Spanish. Nobody thought Mexicans were far-out and groovy because we spoke English. Nope. That’s not the way it worked. Nope, I didn’t like gringos who got to be more Mexican than Mexicans. “Nope,” I said, “there’s nothing to do in this town.” I wasn’t gonna use one word of Spanish in that car. Hell no. Not me. Not Sammy Santos. American all the way.

“So,” Jaime says, “you goin’ out tonight?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Goin’ out with Gigi?”

“Nope,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking to these guys. Neither one of them. It was like telling them what I was gonna tell the priest at confession.

“How come? She’s got it bad for you, ese.”

“Don’t think so.”

“What are you, Sammy? Blind? ¿Ciego? ¿Qué no puedes ver? That girl would go to hell for you.”

“Is that right?” That was my father’s line. “She’s a good girl, Gigi. What would she want with me?”

“You should ask her out.”

“Why don’t you ask her out?”

“It’s not me she likes. She likes you, Sammy.”

Eric pulled into the parking lot of a 7-11. I liked the Pic Quick better. I wasn’t the one driving. “Órale, ¿quieren algo de tomar?” His Spanish was pissing me off.

“I’ll take a Coke,” Jaime said.

I shook my head.

“¿Estás seguro?”

“I’m sure,” I said. I would know if I wanted something to drink. I watched him walk inside the store—then looked at Jaime. “You’re gonna let him buy you a Coke?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t buy your own damn Coke? What’s wrong with you, Jaime?”

“Órale, what’s wrong with you, Sammy? The guy’s buying me a Coke. Big fucking deal. ¿Qué te duele?”

“So you guys smoking pot together—or what? ¿Se ponen grifos? Getting sky high—that’s what everyone says.”

“Since when do you care what everyone says, Sammy?”

“Never have. Still don’t.”

“¿Entonces? We hang out together. What’s the big deal?”

“Seems weird.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Jaime.”

“No. Why don’t you tell me, cabrón?”

“He doesn’t know who you are.”

“Oh. You do?
You do
? You know me, Sammy?”

“Since you were four.”

“And what do you know about me?”

“You’re from Hollywood.”

“And that’s all you know.”

“It’s enough.”

“No.” That’s what he said. I almost got out of the car right then. Right there. But there was Eric, two Cokes in his hand. One for him. One for Jaime.

“Mind if I smoke?” I said. I didn’t really want one. It was a test.

“Mind if I bum one?”

Shit. I tossed my pack to Jaime. They lit up. Jaime tossed them back. I didn’t light one. By then, we were passing The Cork and Bottle. “You can leave me off here,” I said.

Eric pulled into the driveway. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Jaime opened the car door. Pulled the seat up so I get out the back seat. Eric looked at me. “Something eating you?”

“No. Guess I’m just tired.”

“You don’t like me, do you?”

I decided I wasn’t going to lie. Probably wouldn’t get any more rides in his car. “No. I guess I don’t.” I looked at him. “Sorry. Look, thanks for the ride.”

I saw the look on Jaime’s face. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

I didn’t feel so good about myself as I walked home. I sure as hell didn’t.

The house was empty. My father wasn’t home. He was out, doing good somewhere. There was a note on the table.
Your sister’s at the Apodacas. Bring her home. I’ll be late. If you have to go out, well you
have to go out. I’m sure Mrs. Apodaca will take her. I already told her you have my permission, so she won’t give you a hard time.
I smiled. Dad was always looking out for me. He knew Mrs. Apodaca was always giving me the third degree. I shook my head. He was a funny guy, my dad, always getting involved with stuff—cleaning up the neighborhood, planting trees, helping the Knights of Columbus raise money for this or that. His way of loving the world. “You’ve got to love the world, Sammy.”

Sundays he took us to breakfast after mass and Sunday nights he’d cook. Sundays he gave me a day off. Tomorrow was Sunday. Good day. I’d read.
Great Expectations
, that’s what I was reading. I’d read it before, liked Dickens. Even if he was English. They weren’t all bad. I knew that. I thought of Eric Fry. Yeah, that’s what I’d do, I’d read. And then I’d help Elena with her homework. I’d watch football with Dad. It didn’t matter that I only halfway paid attention. I’d sit with him, halfway read, halfway watch the game. In the evenings we’d watch
The Wonderful World of Disney
with Elena. Then we’d watch
Ed Sullivan.
Yup, tomorrow was Sunday. But tonight, tonight was Saturday. And I wanted to go out. Because I wanted to feel something else, anything besides what I was feeling. I wanted to go out. Maybe I’d call René. Maybe we’d go out. Cruise. Have a few beers. That’s what I thought. I picked up the phone. Dialed. He answered.

“René. What is it?”

“Hey, Sammy, ¿qué dices?”

“Nada, nada. Hey, you got plans tonight?”

“Gotta date, Sammy.”

Figures. He was one of those guys who was always looking. Always. Desperate. “Anybody I know?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know her. Angel. Angel Rosas.”

He was goin’ out with Angel. Shit. Not that I would’ve ever asked her out. But Angel? I tried to be a good sport. “She’s fine,” I said.

“Yeah. Wanna ask someone out? We could all four go out.” He was being decent.

“Nah,” I said.

“Why don’t you call Gigi?”

“I don’t want to call Gigi.”

“C’mon, ask her out.”

“She wears too much makeup.”

“Ask her out.”

“It’s almost six o’clock. Yeah, yeah, I’ll call her and say, ‘Gigi, what is it? You wanna go out? Pick you up in an hour and half.’ She’ll call me a pendejo and a menso and a pinche and a cabrón and she’ll hang the phone up on me. You don’t call a girl half hour before you pick her up, ¿sabes?”

“Cálmate, ese.” And then he put on this real white hippie voice, “Don’t be a bummer, baby, be cool. Stay cool. Everything’s far-out and bitchin.” René, he could be funny.

I laughed. “Nah, I’ll pass.”

He got real quiet. I knew something was up. “I was gonna call you,” he said. “Gigi’s kinda comin’ along on our date.”

“What?’

“It’s the only way Angel would go out with me. She said she didn’t trust me. She said she’d go—only if Gigi was going. So—”

“So that’s why you want me to ask her out? Screw you. Forget it.”

“Ah, come on.”

“To babysit Gigi.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yeah, you pinche, it’s just like that.”

“Look, I really like Angel. No seas culo.”

“I don’t like it when someone makes a pendejo out of me. Look, just pick me up, damnit.” I hung up the phone. I wasn’t gonna have a good time. Hell no, I wasn’t.

I sat on the porch, lit a cigarette, thought about Gigi and what a pain in the ass she was. I thought about René. He was gonna kiss Angel. I hated the thought of that. Then I thought about Eric and Jaime and what a pinche I’d been. They were trying to be friendly. And I was a complete cabrón. And then it came to me that I was thinking less and less about Juliana. That made me sad. The living, they forget. But that’s what we do. I didn’t want to forget. Didn’t matter, though, what I wanted. Each day I forgot a little more.

I wondered if my father had forgotten my mother. But if he had, how come he never went out on dates? I wanted to ask him about that. I mean, he probably carried my mother around with him every day—just like I carried Juliana around. Only it was probably worse for my Dad. But I knew my father would never talk about that kind of thing. Not ever. I guess that maybe my mom and dad had loved each other so much that it just wasn’t right to talk about it. When you really loved someone, you wanted other people to know. But you wanted to keep it a secret, too. That’s what love was: a secret. Mostly, that’s what love was.

So we went
out. The four of us, me and Gigi and René and Angel. We went riding around. Then we went to get some burgers at Shirley’s. Went inside and everything. Not just the drive-in. We talked. About stuff. I didn’t like the way René was looking at Angel. But she wasn’t looking at him the same way. That was good. “There’s a party at Charlie Gladstein’s,” Gigi said. “We’re invited. He wants us to come.”

Yup. That Charlie had a thing for Gigi. I knew that. I did. “He wants you to come to his party,” I said.

“Don’t be like that, Sammy. He’s nice. He likes you.”

I nodded. “I like him, too. Nice guy. Yeah, yeah, everyone likes everyone.” I laughed, remembering what he’d told me. “Except Charlie doesn’t like Protestants.”

“What?”