“Yes! Yes! I’ll come. Stop!” She’s leaning all the way back. Her head is nearly touching the floor. She’s balancing, her knee pinching my side, holding her in place. Coño. Her muscles are so strong. Is it weird that it makes me want her even more?
We both know what this means. We’ve talked about finding time alone.
I pull her up. “You’ll stay for dinner?” I whisper.
She nods. She’s trying to control her grin. “I’m excited to meet your mom.”
“Oh, is that what you’re excited about?” I take her face. I’m about to kiss her again when the subway doors open. A cop steps in. His handcuffs smack against his baton.
I drop my hands. They’re weights at my sides. Not strong. Not sure.
The cop scans the car. He frowns when he sees us.
Isa slides her arm through mine. She grips my hand so tight my fingers go numb. The cop passes us. When he’s in the next car, Isa reaches for my chin. She kisses me until I forget about the cop. Until all I can think about is Saturday.
•••
The elevator dings. The words of the poem I’ve been writing in my head since I kissed Isa goodbye scatter. I piece them back together as I tread the brown shag rug to my apartment. In a few days, Isa will walk over the same Hershey-chocolate carpet, drag her fingers along the peanut-butter walls. She’ll laugh, remembering I told her I live down a Reese’s Pieces hall.
I smell the chuletas before I open the door. Mami’s voice rises from the kitchen, carrying over the hiss and spatter of oil. I poke my head in. She’s got the phone wedged under her ear. She pushes thin strips of cebolla y pimientos around the frying pan, then flips pork chops with a spatula. It’s after nine. She’s home early.
She gives me a nod, then gestures at the meat. I bring her a plate from the counter.
“Sí, sí, mi amor . . . Entiendo . . . Lo siento,” she says into the phone. She slides one of the chuletas onto the plate. The edges are golden and crisped. Just how I like them.
“¿Quién es?” I mouth the words.
She holds a finger up. Her bangle bracelets slide down her arm. Their brassy color looks good against her brown skin. Her blue scrub top is flecked with grease. A sweatshirt with rows of tiny yellow pineapples drapes over the back of a chair. The steam’s still running in our fifth-floor apartment. Mami jokes that it always feels like the DR in here.
Mami points to another plate. I hold it steady as she places a pork chop in the middle, then dumps spatula after spatula of onions and peppers on top. This plate must be mine.
My stomach grumbles.
Mami puts down the phone, and we sit at the two-person table. “Sorry,” she says. “That was the abuelita de Danny. Have you seen him?” She saws off a piece of chuleta. She closes her lips around the fork and groans.
I’m crunching down on meat, the sharp tang of garlic mixing with sweet onion and pepper. The words of my poem flood back, riding colors of green, gold, and red.
“¡’Pérate, la leche!” She jumps out of her chair when she sees I have nothing to drink.
I swallow. “Siéntate, Mami. I’ll get it.” I pour us two glasses of milk.
“¿Y Danny?” she asks, when I place the milk in front of her.
“Haven’t seen him today.” I try to think when he was last in school. We’re not in the same classes. “Maybe Monday I saw him? In the hall?” If he hadn’t dropped the team, I’d be seeing him every day. It’s not the same when it’s just Bryan and me. It’s like I’m wearing two shoes, but forgot my belt.
Mami stabs another bite. “¿Con quién está andando? Is it a girl at least?”
A girl would be so much better for Danny than Pinchón’s gang. I don’t want to give her Pinchón’s name. I shrug instead.
Mami shakes her head. Her fork scrapes her plate.
“Speaking of girls, I know you wanted to meet Isa. She can come this Saturday. Does that work?”
Mami’s eyes widen like Sra. Hernandez just told her about a celebrity visiting the Fifth Avenue salon where she works. “¿De veras? She no has class? But what about your game?”
“I’ll finish in time for dinner. We’re both free for once. Can you believe it?” I scoop another forkful of peppers and onions. A line from my poem is stuck on repeat.
Mami pats at her hair. “Ay, but I need to make an appointment.”
“You look beautiful,” I tell her. “You don’t need to do anything special. We can even go out, so you don’t have to cook.”
She puts down her fork. She crosses her arms. Her red-painted nails tap at her skin then point at my plate. “¿Y qué? You don’t like my food?”
I stand. I plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Your cooking is the best. I just don’t want you to have to work. Not unless you want to.”
“This, I want to,” she declares. She grabs up her fork and finishes her food. “Since when has my son brought home a girl before? Never. And I would like to thank her for that smile. You no smile like that since you was nine and your papi started taking notice of you.”
“Mami—” I hate when she brings that up.
She raises her hands. “No, no. To ’ta bien. I know you love your mamá. But I can do nothing to make you look like that. Your papi? Sí. Your Isabelle? Sí. And I know this smile”—she squeezes my cheeks—“is not just for las chuletas. You saw her tonight, no?”
I nod. I try not to smile harder.
She nods back. “I know this Isabelle, she is special. I will make una cena especial for her. And we have something else to celebrate. They told me I can have the day shift. Starting in July.”
“Really?” The nursing home’s had Mami’s request for five years. But it goes by seniority. Someone has to retire or leave for a day spot to open up.
I grab Mami into a hug. She squeals when I lift her off the ground. Mami owns our apartment. She bought it with her settlement from the divorce, but she still has to make the monthly maintenance. And pay bills for food and electricity. So she needs that job. One of the things I dream about if I make it to the pros, besides the look on Papi’s face, is being able to care for Mami.
“Ay, ¡felicidades!” I swing her around. When I set her down, she pushes a chair to the counter. Before she can climb it, I get down the bottle of Brugal from the cabinet above the refrigerator. She side-eyes me as I hand it to her. She examines the bottle, checking to make sure I haven’t taken any. As if I would ever drink her rum. That same bottle’s been there forever. She only takes it out on truly special occasions.
I stamp down my smirk. “You should keep it somewhere else.” I put the frying pan in the sink and start scrubbing. “I don’t want you falling.” Mami puts on music as I turn for the cutting board. Mami’s sitting in the chair, watching me, a small glass in her hand. Her crossed leg bobs to the bachata beat. She raises the glass to me. I blow her a kiss and pick up the sponge.
Dos Locos comes on. Mami stands, smoothing out her scrubs.
“Ven, baila con tu mamá.”
I dry my hands and dance with her. It’s her favorite song, a slow one, about two lovers who’ve broken up but can’t stop thinking of each other. It used to make me think she missed Papi. She never got another novio. Not that I know of, anyway. When I asked her about the song and Papi years ago, she laughed. She said it was just a good song.