“Punk!”
“What’d you call me?” Niles says. “I didn’t hear because I fell asleep.” He fake yawns and opens the Cheetos bag. “I’m SO tired. It’s hard being awesome.” He stuffs a handful of Cheetos into his mouth.
And just like that, the guys are back to being guys, throwing food at one another and trying to catch it in their mouths. Lydia’s in the line of fire of their Cheetos-and-tater-tots war, so she forgets that I breached a three-year taboo subject. Only Jake’s looking at me, and Kelly sees Jake looking at me. I can see them out of the corner of my eye, so I focus on my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich like it’s manna from heaven.
* * *
Luckily, essays, homework, and my shift at Billy’s Buns keep my head occupied for the next day and a half. As usual, I swim Thursday after work, and I bask in the almost-full moon as I bodysurf by God’s night-light. I skip lunch with my friends on Friday and spend it in the library studying for a physics test, which is my MO most test days. Today’s no different, except for Cecilia Grayson bumping my desk on her way to check out a book. She mumbles, “Watch it,” and my mean side wants to ask if she’s talking to the desk. I don’t.
By Friday evening, I barely remember it. In fact, every thought of the week wisps away with the ocean breeze as I pedal up to the Venue and see Jake. I arrive just as he’s locking up his bike, and my heart does that hummingbird thing again. “Hey, there,” I say. “So I didn’t tell you. We’re washing dishes, but we do it so we can practice our Spanish. How much do you know?”
“Hola, hola, Coca-Cola,” he responds.
I laugh. “Very convincing. You sound like you were born there.”
“I was.”
“Really?”
“No, not even close.” He laughs. “You always this trusting?” He bumps me in the shoulder. This is his thing, and I love it. “Come on,” he says. “Show me these dishes that we have to speak Spanish to.”
We enter through the back door into the restaurant kitchen, and I’m immediately engulfed in a hug from Lydia’s Uncle Joe. He’s hairy except for his head, and he gives the best hugs—big and bearlike—the kind I wish my dad would give me. Sometimes, I close my eyes and pretend he’s Dad, but it’s weird because he’s like twice the size of Dad, and he speaks Spanish. “¿Qué pasa, hija?” he says in my ear, then releases me and hands us gloves and hairnets.
“Nada,” I say.
“¡Híjole! ¿Quién es el muchacho guapo?” He says this while offering Jake a handshake, so I’m guessing he’s talking about Jake, but his words are fast. “Who’s the . . .” and that’s as far as I got.
I reach for my phone to look up Google Translate, but Jake answers, “Mucho gusto. Jake Evans.”
Lydia rattles off a paragraph in super-speed Spanish, which she knows I can’t follow. She and Uncle Joe look back and forth between me and Jake, and Uncle Joe grins and makes noises like a schoolgirl.
The corners of Jake’s mouth turn up. He’s understanding every word of it! They’re talking about us!
Uncle Joe pats Jake on the back. “Eres un muchacho con mucha suerte.”
“Sí. ¡Es verdad! Pero no.”
“Ahhh. ¿Tienes una novia?”
“Es complicado.”
“Ay. Todas las mujeres.”
Wait. Novia? I know what novia means!
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I say. “Solamente soy un amigo.”
“Una amiga,” Uncle Joe corrects.
“No,” Jake says. “Of course I wouldn’t say that. You don’t date, remember?” He bumps my shoulder. “I was telling them about my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? It’s like he says it in Spanish. It hangs there like a word that my brain can’t process. Then the past few days come crashing down. I think back to my single word prayer, “Help,” on Wednesday night. Jesus answered me. So many posters and memes talk about the power of prayer. I can’t think of one that talks about the pain of prayer. There needs to be a picture of a bumblebee on a swollen arm: Prayer stings.
“Ay, Lovette,” Uncle Joe says. “¿Qué estás pensando? Regresa al mundo.”
Something about thinking and returning to earth. “Lo siento,” I say, which is my go-to when he says most things to me.
We head to the stacks of dishes. The Venue’s a restaurant, a bar, and after 9:00 p.m., a nightclub, and thus, it has an endless stream of plates, glasses, and silverware. We lose ourselves in suds, warm water, and basic phrases. Uncle Joe asks me how the weather is, what my favorite music is, simple things in the present tense.
I’m hoping I can still get my full-moon swim in. My curfew’s eleven, and I figure I can sneak out when we’re done washing dishes. Lydia won’t even notice once she’s on the dance floor. Hopefully Jake won’t ask too many questions, and he’ll just assume I need to get home.
At 8:50 p.m., we hear the music cue up. Lydia tells Jake about the dance club at nine (Latin Music Fridays) and how Uncle Joe lets me and Lyds go out there as long as we don’t drink, and how we both love to dance.
“Correction,” I say, pointing a butter knife at her. “Lydia’s the dancer. I’m the mannequin, hoping not to get knocked over.”
He laughs. “It’s okay. My dancing looks like I’m on a trampoline.” As we wash, rinse, and stack, a tension releases in me. He has a girlfriend. We can only be friends. There doesn’t have to be weirdness between us because nothing’s going to happen.
“So where’s Kaj?” Jake asks.
“Español,” I remind him, flicking suds at his arms. “No inglés.”
“¿Dondé está Kaj?”
“No sé,” Lydia responds, shrugging. “Not his thing. Pero, he might show up luego.” Uh-oh. The way she says it means he won’t show up later. She only mixes English and Spanish when she’s bothered.
Jake picks up on it too, I think, because he switches subjects. “So it’s almost nine.” He gestures in the direction of the music.
We’re just about done, which was supposed to be my exit time, but Uncle Joe nods the go-ahead. Lydia gives a hip shake as a response.
“See?” Jake says, pulling off his gloves. “I mean, look at that. And you haven’t seen how high I can jump to salsa music. And, Lovette—”
“I told you,” I say, hoping this gets me out of it. “I’m useless out there. Mannequin.”