She turned Jubilee to face her, smoothing a creamy curl, pulling the hem of Jubilee’s ruffled dress, and lifting the collar of a lace sock. Bianca rubbed the lace between her fingers, her gaze shifting toward the picture frame on her desk, which held a glowworm of a girlchild: Bee in third grade making her First Holy Communion at Sacred Heart. Mama had bought the white lace dress and flowered wreath from a swap meet in Calexico, the twin city bordering Mexicali, twenty minutes from her girlhood town, as close back into Mexico as Mama ever went. It wasn’t safe, Mama had said. Still, Bianca had crossed the border often, with Gabe and his family, but Mama hadn’t been back since she was a girl. In that communion picture, Bianca’s lace sock scrunched an inch shorter than the other, rolled down to her ankle, so she looked as lopsided as her smile. Jubilee reminded Bianca of herself when she was a girl. She liked that about her.
“You hungry, baby girl? Let’s go outside with uncles.”
In the kitchen, she pulled a bento-box plate from the cupboard, fished the last Diet Coke from the bottom of the pack in the fridge, tucked it between her arm and Jubilee, then grabbed a baby bottle from the cupboard. She grabbed the pink high chair from the kitchen corner and, balancing her supplies, pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the cement patio where the guys were eating, each with a glass of red wine.
The August sun hovered low in the evening sky. The chickens the guys raised for fresh brown eggs rustled in their coop beside the stand-alone garage, which, along with the main house, had also refuged migrant families before the guys had bought it; all through the house and garage, in every room, bunk beds and makeshift cots had sprawled along each wall, and in the center of the garage behind a shower curtain, a single toilet the guys had since removed. The biddies squawking mildly as Bianca settled herself at the patio table were the second set of chickens, the first, victims of the neighbor’s piles of debris beside the fence that formed a small mountain high enough for a vicious dog to climb over.
From the house behind them, beyond the jacarandas weeping their blue bells over the wooden fence, the hum of the neighbor’s bolero music rose through a screen door, bridging the distance between the Valley and Bianca. Was there a soft guitar melody playing now on Rio Vista? How was Esme, Bianca’s almost-mother-in-law?
“Hey, sister,” Matty greeted her with his usual beat, with a warmth like a dry towel around her bare shoulders after a day of jumping off the high dive and practicing for swim team at the public pool. Matty wore khaki shorts, a plaid button-down, and Doc Martens, his regular writing uniform. She kissed him on the cheek, then Handro.
“You need help, hun?” Handro asked, standing and reaching out his slender arms.
“Sure,” she answered, always grateful for Handro. He was the perfect boyfriend. For her brother, of course, but still. She smiled at his purple high-top Converse. She’d worn a pair in junior high, matching Lily’s, with their short baby doll–cut dresses. “Can you set her in the high chair so I can fix a plate?”
Handro set Jubilee down in her chair then placed the bottle in front of her. This was their routine. In the beginning, she’d catch the guys side-eyeing each other, see the reluctance on their faces, but she couldn’t focus on that. She needed this to be normal. And soon it was. They were a family. And family protected each other.
Handro asked, “Need me to feed her for you?”
“Thanks, but I’ll do it after I eat.”
“M’kay, hun.” Handro smiled as he sat back down and reached for Matty’s hand. If Matty still rolled his eyes at any of this, Bianca chose not to notice. At least in the way that one chooses one’s eye color. The way we accept what we cannot control then call it choice.
Matty asked, “How was school . . . with Jubilee?” He’d had a meeting with his comic book editors, ironing out the details of the series he would launch in the coming year, at the springtime convention.
“My writing professor didn’t mind.” Bianca plopped a piece of fish and a vegetable skewer onto her plate. “It’s technically against the rules, but Elena said as long as we stayed in the back and didn’t disrupt class, it was fine.” Matty hadn’t wanted Bianca to take Jubilee, but she couldn’t leave her alone. “There’s something else I wanted to tell you guys.” She set her plate down and perched at the edge of a patio chair. “I met someone today.” She peeled a chunk of eggplant from her skewer and stuck it into her mouth, trying to act nonchalant though her heart was ricocheting as she awaited their reaction. Normal, she repeated to herself. Act normal.
“Someone famous?” Handro asked, sliding a bite of salmon into his mouth. “Is it James Franco? I’ve heard he goes to every writing program. That sleaze.”
Bee laughed. “No, not someone famous. And I’m not in a writing program yet, tontito. I’m just taking one creative-writing class, for now.”
Matty shook his head, and Bianca kept choosing to ignore any shade he might’ve been throwing. He always gave the air of being slightly above everyone else’s conversation. Bee hardly noticed it anymore, though for the first few months, she’d had the distinct impression Matty was judging her. He cleared his throat, as if signaling them to rein in the nonsense. “OK, sis. Who’d you meet?”
“A guy in my class. A really nice guy.”
“Girl, you waste no time,” Handro said, winking. He leaned forward. “What’s he like?”
“He’s beautiful,” she told Handro, pointedly ignoring Matty’s grouchy expression. “His name is Joshua Walker. We have Mexican Art History together, and he hit on me today.” She wouldn’t call it hitting on her though. More like he was a gentleman. More like he seemed the complete opposite of Gabe, after Gabe became the complete opposite of the charming, puckish boy she’d met when she was fourteen. She brushed away thoughts of Gabe. Those couldn’t lead anywhere but dark. She glanced at Jubilee. Took a deep breath. “He’s sweet. Goofily charming.” He’d invited her to coffee after class, and since it was just down the escalator in the student lounge, she’d agreed. Joshua had seemed nervous and called her miss. He’d pointed out that her last name, Vogelsang, was German. And when she’d said that her mother was Mexican and her father German, he’d said she was a Frida Kahlo, who shared similar ancestry. “He compared me with Frida,” she said, the edges of her mouth crinkling.
“Did he meet Jubilee?” Matty asked.
Bianca glanced down, pushed the food around her plate with her fork. “She was asleep.” Joshua had asked to see the baby. But Bianca had kept her covered with a blanket. Joshua hadn’t pressed.
Matty made a noise in the back of his throat, then sighed and leaned back in his chair.
Bianca turned toward Handro. How fun it would have been if he’d been her college roommate when she’d tried moving out the first time. All that chisme, all that juicy gossip. Handro would’ve taken her to the gay bar where he worked and let her sing Liza Minnelli karaoke with the drag queens, whose long legs Bianca envied. She looked at Matty, his thick black eyebrows knitted. He moved his hand away from Handro’s but said nothing. He looked a little like Walter Matthau in the Odd Couple, only he was the uptight one. Come to think of it, Handro reminded her of an easygoing Felix.