the top of my head, “Ah Mammi … ”
“Well, don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“I wasn’t—” Crap. The Look. That one. I back off fast. “Okay okallw “Okay, I was just kidding. Sorry.”
Grace laughs hysterically.
“Ah, mijo.” Ma waves at me as if I have no right to embarrassment. She greets Grace. “Mija.” Ma chuckles and gives her a big hug and smooch on the cheek. She pulls back and looks her up and down, wagging her long red nail, which I assume means she thinks Grace needs to fatten up. She usually makes some sort of reference to anyone’s need to eat more.
“Grace, it’s good to see you. You’re so tan—I might be able to get away with claiming you as my own. Mijo, fix this girl some lunch.”
Which, of course, is the whole reason we’re here.
Ma asks, “Weren’t you two out surfing?”
“Yes, and we’re starving,” Grace quickly responds.
Ma quips, “Which is the precise reason you need to get some real food in this girl. Now that the house is clean, I have research projects to grade.” She wanders off down the hall humming, clueless about the mop still leaning against the kitchen counter. She’s the stereotypical genius who can never find her laptop. And Dad? He almost always has grease stains rubbed into creases on his hands.
Ma is a marine biology professor at the University of San Diego, a guru in the field. Guru meaning badass, in all respects. She knows her stuff.
We vámonos to the kitchen. An article boasting the latest buzz on her most recent academic feat hangs on the refrigerator. It’s titled Patricia Watson—Local Genius. I slide the article down and say, “There goes Mom, kicking butt and taking names.”
“Must run in the family.”
“Me? Ha.” I open the fridge and hum while sorting through the ridiculously crowded shelves. Fixing vehicles and excelling in academics runs in our family; cleaning out the refrigerator does not. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s a dirty phrase in our house.
I grab a carton of eggs, queso fresco, chorizo, and then the key to it all, a container full of Ma’s homemade tortillas.
Grace says, “Maybe this will fatten me up.”
“Ai.” I focus my energy on chopping the chorizo before I say, “You don’t need to be fattened up, and you don’t need to lose weight.”
“Says you. My curves barely exist.” Grace sidles over and bumps her hip against me as if to prove her point. The girl has some curves. Enough curves to make my heart beat faster.
“Don’t underestimate yourself.” She lets loose a small smile. Score.
I love cooking, and if it weren’t for the fact that I want to actually do something with my life like help people, especially my peeps, I >
I focus on flipping the tortillas on the second skillet and try to come up with something to say. “So today was a great day, huh?”
“Yeah. It was.”
Grace puts the magazine down and pours a cup of coffee, watching me flip the tortillas using my fingertips. Little bubbles of brown pop up on one. I add it to my abuelita’s hand-stitched tortilla warmer, which she gave Ma when my folks married.
Even though we still aren’t a couple, lunch this afternoon is different—and in a weird way. I think it might be
different-good, but if that’s true, then why’d she pull the friend card earlier?
I always have fun with Grace, but there’s something about her lately; I can’t quite put my finger on it. I’ve been making little comments here and there, like a litmus test for our relationship moving to the next level. Problem is, it feels like the results keep changing.
three
Fairy tales do not tell children that
dragons exist. Children already know
that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell the
children that dragons can be killed.
—G. K. Chesterton
During the ride back to my house, I try to hang on to the fun from surfing this morning. But it’s like it’s not in my DNA. That whole out-of-sight-out-of-mind thing only works when I’m on my surfboard. When the ocean isn’t there to command my attention or Ford isn’t around making me laugh, I get sucked back toward my family like it’s a black hole. I’ve spent my whole life keeping my worlds separate—school, beach friends, home. And now, what with Ford interning for my dad, two of them are colliding like particles in an atom smasher. It’s all I can do not to come unhinged.
I shake the thoughts out of my head and refocus on the scenery as Ford