answering, and I could feel the weight of her stare for a long time before she answered. “No, Ma,” she said, barely containing a laugh. “Not every person in Queens is Puerto Rican or Dominican.”
Another voice came on the phone. This time it was the man who I assumed was Dad. “Is he the Mets fan? Pobre pendejo.”
“Papi! Oh my God. You do the most,” she said, laughing again.
I didn’t miss that she’d at least mentioned me to her dad. Even though the information she provided did result in me being mocked in Spanish.
“Hey, I really need to go soon, so let’s sing cumple to Paula.” She sounded a little flustered and looked over at me as if worried that I’d understood. I wasn’t sure how I would break it to her that my Spanish was pretty damn good.
I heard some more shuffling sounds from the phone, then lots of whispering, and before I knew it Julia was belting out the Spanish version of “Happy Birthday” at the top of her lungs while I drove us into Arlington.
As I listened to her sing her heart out to her sister back in New York, I wondered if I’d ever been around anyone this free. Feeling a part of that moment, being there to see it, made me want so much.
I came back from my stormy thoughts when Julia waved her hand in my peripheral vision.
“Hey, sorry. I got distracted.”
“No worries. I was just apologizing for how loud they got. My parents and my grandma only have one volume setting, and it’s loud.”
I smiled at that, shaking my head. “It’s fine. Sounds like they miss you a lot, and that they’re very worried about the lack of guandules in Texas.”
She exhaled and I saw her put her head back on the seat. I wish I could say I didn’t perv on how the swell of her breasts looked with her head thrown back like that, but I’d be lying.
She smiled sadly at whatever came to mind, then rolled her head to look at me. “Right after the disaster with Matt—that’s my ex—I went to the store to get some stuff to make some food. I really wanted sancocho. You know what that is?”
I scoffed at that, because really. “Julia, I ate Dominican rice and beans, maduros, and pernil at least once a week my entire childhood.”
“Damn, your accent is pretty good.” She sounded impressed.
“I can manage in español,” I offered as she gave me a narrowed look from under very long eyelashes.
“You’re full of surprises.” She sounded legitimately perplexed. “Anyway, I went to like three Latinx food stores and couldn’t find the ingredients or even a can of guandules to make moro, so I called my mom from the car bawling. It wasn’t really about the sancocho though.”
I couldn’t even relate to what it was like to call your mother in a time of need, but I could hear how low that moment had felt for her. “That was the last straw, huh?”
“Yes, I felt dumb, trapped, homesick, and I just wanted something that was familiar and when I couldn’t even do that I lost it. My mother and abuela need to feel like they can fix all my problems, and sending bags and bags of dry peas makes them feel like they are.”
There seemed to be more there, and I thought she wouldn’t go into it, but to my surprise after a moment she started talking again. “I miss them, but it’s hard for them to let me go, and that makes it harder for me to move on, to feel settled here. What you said before about never leaving the city, it’s the same for me basically.” She leaned forward, I assumed to get a look at my reaction, and kept explaining. “I’ve travelled, of course, but I haven’t really lived anywhere other than New York. Still, in a weird way, I’ve felt more like myself here than ever before.”
I made a noise at that, curious about what she meant. It seemed to me that with a family like hers, there really would be no place like home. Everything would pale in comparison. “How so?”
I turned to glance at her for a second and found her looking at me, her eyes not as humorous as they’d been before. “There is no standard. No one to watch if I’m living up to my dad and my mom’s example or whatever ‘rules for proper brown girls’ are being dictated on the block.”