“Don’t be stupid. I’m seventeen, you idiot. Of course I don’t get tired of parties. You know what, you’re an old man trapped in the body of a seventeen-year-old guy.”
“I won’t be seventeen until August.”
“It gets worse.”
We both laughed.
“You want to do me a favor?” I said.
“What?”
“If I go out to the desert and get plastered tonight, will you and Susie drive me back home?” I didn’t even know I was going to say that.
She smiled. She had a great smile. A really great smile.
“Sure,” she said.
“What about your party?”
“Watching you loosen up, Ari. That’s a party. We’ll even score the beer for you,” she said. “To celebrate the end of school.”
Gina and Susie were waiting for me on my front steps when I got home from work. They were talking to my mom and dad. Of course they were. I cursed myself for telling them to meet me at my house. What the hell was I thinking? And I didn’t even have an explanation. Yeah, Mom, we’re going out to the desert and I’m going to get shit faced.
Gina and Susie were cool, though. No hint of the beer they said they were going to score. They played good girls to my parents. Not that they weren’t good girls. That’s exactly what they were: good girls who wanted to pretend they were bad girls but who never would be bad girls because they were too decent.
When I drove up, my mom was ecstatic. Not that she behaved ecstatically. But I knew that look. Friends at last! You’re going to a party! Yeah, okay, I really did love my mom. My mom. My mom who knew Gina’s parents, who knew Susie’s parents, who knew everybody. Of course she did.
I remember changing clothes in my room and washing up. I remember staring at myself in the mirror. I remember whispering, “You are a beautiful boy.” I didn’t believe it—but I wanted to.
So the first people to enter into my truck other than Legs and my mother and father, were Gina Navarro and Susie Byrd. “You guys are breaking in my virgin truck,” I said. They rolled their eyes—then just laughed their asses off.
We stopped at Gina’s cousin’s house and picked up an ice chest full of beer and Cokes. I let Gina drive to make sure she knew how to drive a stick shift. She was a pro. She drove better than I did. Not that I told her. It was a perfect night and there was still some coolness in the desert breeze, the heat of the summer was still a step away.
Me and Susie and Gina sat in the bed of my truck. I drank beer and looked up at all the stars. And I found myself whispering, “Do you think we’ll ever discover all the secrets of the universe?”
I was surprised to hear Susie’s voice answering my question. “That would be a beautiful thing, wouldn’t it, Ari?”
“Yeah.” I whispered, “Really beautiful.”
“Do you think, Ari, that love has anything to do with the secrets of the universe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Susie smiled. “Did you love Ileana?”
“No. Maybe a little bit.”
“Did she break your heart?”
“No. I didn’t even know her.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Does my dog count?”
“Well, counts for something.” We all laughed.
Susie was nursing a Coke as I drank beer after beer. “Are you drunk yet?”
“Sort of.”
“So why do you want to get drunk?”
“To feel something.”
“You’re an idiot,” she said. “You’re a good guy, Ari, but you’re definitely an idiot.”
We all lay down on the back of the pickup, me and Gina and Susie, and just kept looking out at the night sky. I didn’t really get all that drunk. I just let myself mellow out. I listened to Gina and Susie talk and I thought it was nice that they knew how to talk and how to laugh and how to be in the world. But it maybe it was easier for girls.
“It’s good you brought a blanket,” I said. “Good thinking.”
Gina laughed. “That’s what girls do, good thinking.”
I wondered what it would be like, to love a girl, to know how a girl thinks, to see the world through a girl’s eyes. Maybe they knew more than boys. Maybe they understood things that boys could never understand.
“Too bad we can’t lie out here forever.”
“Too bad,” Susie said.
“Too bad,” Gina said.
Too bad.
Remember the Rain
turning the pages patiently
in search of meanings
—W. S. Merwin
One
SUMMER WAS HERE AGAIN. SUMMER, SUMMER, SUMMER. I loved and hated summers. Summers had a logic all their own and they always brought something out in me. Summer was supposed to be about freedom and youth and no school and possibilities and adventure and exploration. Summer was a book of hope. That’s why I loved and hated summers. Because they made me want to believe.
I had that Alice Cooper song in my head.
I made up my mind that this was going to be my summer. If summer was a book then I was going to write something beautiful in it. In my own handwriting. But I had no idea what to write. And already the book was being written for me. Already it wasn’t all that promising. Already it was about more work and commitments.
I’d gone on full time at the Charcoaler. I’d never worked forty hours a week. I liked the hours though: eleven in the morning to seven thirty at night, Monday through Thursday. That meant I could always sleep in, and if I wanted, I could go out. Not that I knew where I wanted to go out. On Fridays I went in late and closed at ten. Not a bad schedule—and I had weekends off. So, it was okay. But this was summer! And Saturday afternoons, my mom signed me up for the food bank. I didn’t argue with her.
My life was still someone else’s idea.
I got up early on the first Saturday after school let out. I was in my jogging shorts in the kitchen, having a glass of orange juice. I looked over at my mom who was reading the newspaper. “I have to work tonight.”
“I thought you didn’t work on Saturdays?”
“I’m just filling in for a couple of hours for Mike.”
“He your friend?”
“Not really.”
“It’s decent of you to fill in for him.”
“I’m not doing it for free, I’m getting paid. And, anyway, you raised me to be decent.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled.”
“What’s so thrilling about being decent? I want to be bad boy, if you want to know the truth.”
“A bad boy?”
“You know. Che Guevara. James Dean.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
“I’m looking at her.”
“Yeah, blame it all on your mother.” She laughed.
Me, I was trying to decide if I was joking or not.
“You know, Ari, if you really wanted to be a bad boy, you’d just do it. The last thing bad boys need is their mother’s approval.”
“You think I need your approval?”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
We looked at each other. I always wound up getting into these conversations with my mother that I didn’t want to have. “What if I quit my job?”
She just looked at me. “Fine.”
I knew that tone. “Fine” meant I was full of crap. I knew the code. We looked at each other for about five seconds—which seemed like forever.
“You’re too old for an allowance,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll just mow lawns.”
“That’s imaginative.”
“Too Mexican for you, Mom?”
“No. Just too unreliable.”
“Flipping burgers. That’s reliable. Not very imaginative, but reliable. Come to think of it, it’s the perfect job for me. I’m reliable and unimaginative.”
She shook her head. “Are you going to spend your life beating up on yourself?”
“You’re right. Maybe I??
?ll take the summer off.”
“You’re in high school, Ari. You’re not looking for a profession. You’re just looking for a way to earn some money. You’re in transition.”
“In transition? What kind of a Mexican mother are you?”
“I’m an educated woman. That doesn’t un-Mexicanize me, Ari.”
She sounded a little angry. I loved her anger and wished I had more of it. Her anger was different than mine or my father’s. Her anger didn’t paralyze her. “Okay, I get your point, Mom.”
“Do you?”
“Somehow, Mom, I always feel like a case study around you.”
“Sorry,” she said. Though she wasn’t. She looked at me. “Ari, do you know what an ecotone is?”
“It’s the terrain where two different ecosystems meet. In an ecotone, the landscape will contain elements of the two different ecosystems. It’s like a natural borderlands.”
“Smart boy. In transition. I don’t have to say any more, do I?”
“No mom, you don’t. I live in an ecotone. Employment must coexist with goofing off. Responsibility must coexist with irresponsibility.”
“Something like that.”
“Do I get an A in Sonhood 101?”
“Don’t be mad at me, Ari.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure you are.”
“You’re such a school teacher.”
“Look, Ari, it’s not my fault you’re almost seventeen.”
“And when I’m twenty-five, you’ll still be a schoolteacher.”
“Well, that was mean.”
“Sorry.”
She studied me.
“I am, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“We always begin every summer with an argument, don’t we?”
“It’s a tradition,” I said. “I’m going running.”
As I turned away, she grabbed my arm. “Look, Ari, I’m sorry too.”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“I know you, Ari,” she said.
I wanted to tell her the same thing I wanted to tell Gina Navarro. Nobody knows me.
Then she did what I knew she was going to do—she combed my hair with her fingers. “You don’t have to work if you don’t want to. Your father and I will be happy to give you money.”
I knew she meant it.
But that wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted. “It’s not about the money, Mom.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Just make it a nice summer, Ari.”
The way she said that. The way she looked at me. Sometimes there was so much love in her voice that I just couldn’t stand it.
“Okay, Mom,” I said. “Maybe I’ll fall in love.”
“Why not?” she said.
Sometimes parents loved their sons so much that they made a romance out of their lives. They thought our youth could help us overcome everything. Maybe moms and dads forgot about this one small fact: being on the verge of seventeen could be harsh and painful and confusing. Being on the verge of seventeen could really suck.
Two
IT WASN’T EXACTLY AN ACCIDENT THAT LEGS AND I ran by Dante’s house. I knew he was coming back—though I didn’t know exactly when. He’d sent a postcard on the day he left Chicago: We’re driving back today via Washington, D.C. My dad wants to look something up at the Library of Congress. See you soon. Love, Dante.
When I got to the park, I let Legs off the leash, even though I wasn’t supposed to. I loved watching her run around. I was in love with the innocence of dogs, the purity of their affection. They didn’t know enough to hide their feelings. They existed. A dog was a dog. There was such a simple elegance about being a dog that I envied. I called her back and put her on the leash and started my run again.
“Ari!”
I stopped, then turned around. And there he was, Dante Quintana standing on his porch, waving at me with that honest and sincere smile of his, that same smile he wore when he asked me if I wanted to learn how to swim.
I waved back and walked toward his house. We stood there, looking at each other for a minute. It was strange, that we didn’t have any words. And then he just leapt off his porch and hugged me. “Ari! Look at you! Long hair! You look like Che Guevara without the mustache.”
“Nice,” I said.
Legs barked at him. “You have to pet her,” I said. “She hates to be ignored.”
Dante got down on his knees and petted her. Then kissed her. Legs licked his face. It was hard to say which of the two of them was more affectionate. “Legs, Legs, so nice to meet you.” He looked so happy and I wondered about that, his capacity for happiness. Where did that come from? Did I have that kind of happiness inside me? Was I just afraid of it?
“Where’d you get all those muscles, Ari?”
I looked at him, standing in front of me, him and all his uncensored questions.
“My dad’s old weights in the basement.” I said. And then I realized that he was now taller than me. “How’d you grow so much?” I said.
“Must have been the cold,” he said. “Five eleven. I’m exactly as tall as my dad.” He studied me. “You’re shorter—but your hair makes you look taller.”
That made me laugh though I didn’t know why. He hugged me again and whispered, “I missed you so much, Ari Mendoza.”
Typically, I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything.
“Are we going to be friends?”
“Don’t be crazy, Dante. We are friends.”
“Will we always be friends?”
“Always.”
“I’ll never lie to you about anything,” he said.
“I might lie to you,” I said. And then we laughed. And I thought, Maybe this will be the summer when there is nothing but laughter. Maybe this will be the summer.
“Come and say hi to Mom and Dad,” he said. “They’ll want to see you.”
“Can they come out? I have Legs.”
“Legs can come in.”
“I don’t think your mom would like that.”
“If it’s your dog, the dog can come in. Trust me on that one.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “My mom isn’t about to forget that incident in the rain.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“My mom is an elephant when it comes to remembering.”
But we didn’t have to test Dante’s mom about dogs in the house because just then, Mr. Quintana was at the front door and he was shouting at his wife, “Soledad, guess who’s here?”
They were all over me, hugging me and saying nice things, and I wanted to cry. Because their affection was so real and somehow, I felt I didn’t deserve it or felt maybe that they were hugging the guy who had saved their son’s life. I wanted them to hug me just because I was Ari and I would never be just Ari to them. But I had learned how to hide what I felt. No, that’s not true. There was no learning involved. I had been born knowing how to hide what I felt.
They were so happy to see me. And the truth was that I was happy to see them, too.
I remember telling Mr. Quintana that I was working at the Charcoaler. He smirked at Dante. “Work, Dante, there’s a thought.”
“I’m going to get a job, Dad. I really am.”
Mrs. Quintana looked different. I don’t know, it was like she was holding the sun inside her. I had never seen a woman look more beautiful. She looked younger than the last time I’d seen her. Younger, not older. Not that she was old. She’d had Dante when she was twenty, I knew that. So she was thirty-eight or so. But she looked younger than that in the morning light. Maybe that’s what it was, the morning light.
I heard Dante’s voice as I listened to his parents talk about their year in Chicago. “When do I get a ride in the truck?”
“How about after work?” I said. “I get off at seven thirty.”
“You have to teach me how to drive, Ari.”
I saw the look on his mother’s face.
“Aren’t dads supposed to do that?” I said.
 
; “My dad is the worst driver in the universe,” he said.
“That’s not true,” Mr. Quintana said. “Just the worst driver in El Paso.” He was the only man I’d ever met who actually admitted he was a bad driver. Before I left, his mother managed to pull me aside. “I know you’re going to let Dante drive your truck sooner or later.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Dante’s very persuasive. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” I smiled at her. Something about her made me feel perfectly confident and at ease. I just didn’t feel that way around most people. “I can see that I’m going to have to deal with two mothers this summer.”
“You’re a part of this family,” she said. “There’s no use fighting it.”
“I’m sure I’ll disappoint you someday, Mrs. Quintana.”
“No,” she said. And even though her voice could be so firm, right then her voice was almost as kind as my own mother’s. “You’re so hard on yourself, Ari.”
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just the way it is with me.”
She smiled at me. “Dante’s not the only one who missed you.”
It was the most beautiful thing an adult who wasn’t my mom or dad had ever said to me. And I knew that there was something about me that Mrs. Quintana saw and loved. And even though I felt it was a beautiful thing, I also felt it was a weight. Not that she meant it to be a weight. But love was always something heavy for me. Something I had to carry.
Three
LEGS AND I PICKED DANTE UP AT AROUND EIGHT o’clock. The sun was still out, but it was sinking fast and it was hot. I honked the horn and Dante was standing at the door. “That’s your truck! It’s amazing! It’s beautiful, Ari!”
Yeah, I knew I must have had a stupid grin on my face. A guy who loves his truck needs other people to admire his driving machine. Yeah, needs. That’s the truth. I don’t know why, but that’s the way truck guys are.
He shouted back toward his house. “Mom! Dad! Come look at Ari’s truck!” He bounded down the stairs like a kid. Always so uncensored. Legs and I hopped out of the truck and watched Dante walk around the truck admiring it. “Not a scratch,” he said.
“That’s because I don’t drive it to school.”