Dante smiled. “Real chrome rims,” he said. “You’re a real Mexican, Ari.”
That made me laugh. “So are you, you jerk.”
“Nah, I’ll never be a real Mexican.”
Why did it matter so much to him? But it mattered to me too. He was about to say something, but he noticed his parents walking down the front steps of his house.
“Great truck, Ari! Now, that’s a classic.” Mr. Quintana reacted just like Dante with that uncensored enthusiasm.
Mrs. Quintana just smiled. The two of them walked around the truck, inspecting it, smiling at it as if they had run into an old friend. “It’s a beautiful truck, Ari.” I hadn’t expected that from Mrs. Quintana. Dante had already redirected his attention to Legs who was licking his face. I don’t know what came over me, but I tossed Mr. Quintana my keys. “You can take your girlfriend out for a spin if you want,” I said.
There was no hesitation in his smile. I could tell Mrs. Quintana was trying to suppress the girl that was still living inside her. But even without her husband’s smile, what she was holding inside of her seemed far more profound to me. It was as if I was coming to understand Dante’s mother. I knew that it mattered. I wondered why.
I liked watching them, all three of them around my truck. I wanted time to stop because everything seemed so simple, Dante and Legs falling in love with each other, Dante’s mom and dad remembering something about their youth as they examined my truck, and me, the proud owner. I had something of value—even if it was just a truck that brought out a sweet nostalgia in people. It was as if my eyes were a camera and I was photographing the moment, knowing that I would keep that photograph forever.
Dante and I sat on his steps and watched his dad start up my truck, his mother leaning into him like a girl on a first date.
“Buy her a milk shake!” Dante yelled. “Girls like it when you buy them something!”
We could see them laughing as they drove off.
“Your parents,” I said. “Sometimes they’re like kids.”
“They’re happy,” he said. “Your parents? Are they happy?”
“Mom and Dad, they’re not at all like your mom and dad. But, my mom adores my dad. I know that. And I think my dad adores my mom too. He’s just not demonstrative.”
“Demonstrative. That’s not an Ari word.”
“You’re making fun. I’ve expanded my vocabulary.” I nudged him. “I’m preparing for college.”
“How many new words a day?”
“You know, a few. I like the old words better. They’re like old friends.”
Dante nudged me back. “Demonstrative. Is that word ever going to be an old friend?”
“Maybe not.”
“You’re like your father, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“My mom struggles with that too, you know? She doesn’t naturally display her feelings. That’s why she married my dad. That’s what I think. He drags it out of her, all those feelings she has.”
“Then it’s a good match.”
“Yeah, it is. The funny thing is, I sometimes think my mother loves my father more than he loves her. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe. Is love a contest?”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe everyone loves differently. Maybe that’s all that matters.”
“You do realize you’re talking, don’t you? I mean you’re really talking.”
“I talk, Dante. Don’t be a shit.”
“Sometimes you talk. Other times you just, I don’t know, you just avoid.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know. Are there going to be rules for us, Ari?”
“Rules?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“So what are the rules?”
“I don’t kiss boys.”
“Okay, so the first rule is: No trying to kiss Ari.”
“Yeah, that’s the first rule.”
“And I have a rule for you.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
“No running away from Dante.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think you know what it means. Someday, someone will walk up to you and say: ‘Why are you hanging out with that queer?’ If you can’t stick by me as a friend, Ari, if you can’t do that, then maybe it’s better that you just, you know—it would kill me. You know it would kill me if you—”
“Then it’s a question of loyalty.”
“Yes.”
I laughed. “I have a harder rule to follow.”
He laughed too.
He touched my shoulder—then smiled. “Bullshit, Ari. You have the harder rule to follow? Buffalo shit. Coyote shit. All you have to do is be loyal to the most brilliant guy you’ve ever met—which is like walking barefoot through the park. I, on the other hand, have to refrain from kissing the greatest guy in the universe—which is like walking barefoot on hot coals.”
“I see you still have the barefoot thing going on.”
“I’ll always hate shoes.”
“We’ll play that game,” I said. “That game you made up to beat the hell out of your tennis shoes.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?”
The way he said that. Like he knew we would never play that game again. We were too old now. We’d lost something and we both knew it.
We didn’t say anything for a long time.
We just sat there on his front steps. Waiting. I looked over and saw Legs resting her head on Dante’s lap.
Four
DANTE AND I AND LEGS DROVE OUT TO THE DESERT that night. To my favorite spot. It was just past twilight and the stars were coming out from wherever it was they hid during the day.
“Next time we’ll bring my telescope.”
“Good idea,” I said.
We lay down on the bed of my truck and stared out at the new night. Legs was exploring the desert and I had to call her back. She hopped on the truck and made a space for herself between me and Dante.
“I love Legs,” Dante said.
“She loves you back.”
He pointed up at the sky. “See Ursa Major?”
“No.”
“Over there.”
I studied the sky. “Yes. Yes. I see it.”
“It’s so amazing.”
“Yes, it is amazing.”
We were quiet. We just lay there.
“Ari?”
“Yeah?”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“My mother’s pregnant.”
“What?”
“My mom’s going to have a baby. Can you believe that?”
“No shit.”
“Chicago was cold and my parents figured out a way to keep warm.” That really made me laugh.
“You think parents ever outgrow sex?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s something you outgrow, is it? What do I know, I’m just waiting to grow into it.”
“Me too.”
We were quiet again.
“Wow, Dante,” I whispered. “You’re going to be a big brother.”
“Yeah, a really big brother.” He looked over at me. “Does that make you think of—what was your brother’s name?”
“Bernardo.”
“Does that make you think of him?”
“Everything makes me think of him. Sometimes, when I’m driving along in my pickup, I think of him and I wonder if he liked trucks and I wonder what he’s like and I wish I knew him and—I don’t know—I just can’t let it go. I mean, it’s not as if I ever really knew him. So why does it matter so much?”
“If it matters, then it matters.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Are you rolling your eyes?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I think you should confront your parents. You should just sit them down and make them tell you. Make them be adults.”
br />
“You can’t make anyone be an adult. Especially an adult.” That really made Dante laugh and we got to laughing so hard that Legs started barking at us.
“You know,” Dante said, “I need to take my own advice.” He paused. “I hope to God that my mother has a boy. And he better like girls. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him.”
That got us to laughing again. And that got Legs to barking again.
When we finally got quiet again, I heard Dante’s voice and it seemed so small in the desert night. “I have to tell them, Ari.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to.”
“But what if you fall in love with a girl?”
“That’s not going to happen, Ari.”
“They’ll always love you, Dante.”
He didn’t say anything. And then I heard him crying. So I just let him cry. There was nothing I could do. Except listen to his pain. I could do that. I could hardly stand it. But I could do that. Just listen to his pain.
“Dante,” I whispered. “Can’t you see how much they love you?”
“I’m going to disappoint them. Just like I’ve disappointed you.”
“You haven’t disappointed me, Dante.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m crying.”
“No, Dante.” I got up from where I was lying and sat on the edge of the open tailgate of the truck. He sat up and we stared at each other. “Don’t cry, Dante. I’m not disappointed.”
On the way back to town we stopped off at a drive-in burger joint and had a root beer. “So what are you going to do this summer?” I said.
“Well, I’m going to practice with the Cathedral swim team and I’m going to work on some paintings and I’m going to get a job.”
“Really. You’re going to get a job?”
“God, you sound like my dad.”
“Well, why do you want to work?”
“To learn about life.”
“Life,” I said. “Work. Shit. Ecotone.”
“Ecotone?”
Five
ONE NIGHT, DANTE AND I WERE HANGING OUT IN HIS room. He’d graduated to working on canvas. He was working on a large painting on an easel. It was covered over.
“Can I see?”
“No.”
“When you finish?”
“Yes. When I finish.”
“Okay,” I said.
He was lying on his bed and I was sitting on his chair.
“Read any good books of poems lately?” I said.
“No, not really.” He seemed a little distracted.
“Where are you, Dante?”
“Here,” he said. He sat up on his bed. “I was thinking about the kissing thing,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“I mean, how do you know that you don’t like kissing boys if you’ve never kissed one?”
“I think you just know, Dante.”
“Well, have you ever?”
“You know I haven’t. Have you?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe you don’t really like kissing guys. Maybe you just think you do.”
“I think we should try an experiment.”
“I know what you’re going to say and the answer is no.”
“You’re my best friend, right?”
“Yes. But right now I’m really regretting it.”
“Let’s just try it.”
“No.”
“I won’t tell anyone. C’mon.”
“No.”
“Look, it’s just a kiss. You know. And then we’ll both know.”
“We already do know.”
“We won’t really know until we actually do it.”
“No.”
“Ari, please.”
“Dante.”
“Stand up.”
I don’t know why I did it, but I did it. I stood up.
And then he stood right in front of me.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
So I closed my eyes.
And he kissed me. And I kissed him back.
And then he started really kissing me. And I pulled away.
“Well?” he said.
“Didn’t work for me,” I said.
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. It sure worked for me.”
“Yeah. I think I get that, Dante.”
“So, well, that’s over with then, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“A little.”
He sat back down on his bed. He looked sad. I didn’t like seeing him that way. “I’m more mad at myself,” I said. “I always let you talk me into things. It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
“Don’t cry, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Six
I DIDN’T CALL DANTE FOR A FEW DAYS.
He didn’t call me either.
But somehow I knew he was sulking. He felt bad. And I felt bad too. So after a couple of days passed, I called him. “You want to go running in the morning?” I said.
“What time?” he said.
“Six thirty.”
“Okay,” he said.
For someone who wasn’t a runner, he ran really well. I ran a lot slower with Dante along, but that was okay. We talked a little. And laughed. And afterward, we played Frisbee with Legs in the park and we were all right. And I needed us to be all right. And he needed us to be all right too. And so we were.
“Thanks for calling,” he said. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t call anymore.”
Life seemed strangely normal for a while. Not that I wanted my summer to be normal. But, normal was okay. I could settle for normal. I went for a run in the mornings and worked out. I went to work.
Sometimes Dante called me and we talked. Not about anything in particular. He was working on a painting and he’d gotten a job at the drugstore in Kern Place. He said he liked working there because when he got off he could go to the university and spend some time in the library. Being a professor’s son had its privileges. Also he said, “You won’t believe who buys condoms.”
I don’t know if he said that to make me laugh. But it worked.
“And Mom’s teaching me how to drive,” he said. “Mostly we fight.”
“I’ll let you drive my pickup,” I said.
“My mother’s worst nightmare,” he said.
We were laughing again. And that was good. It wouldn’t be summer without Dante’s laughter. We talked a lot on the phone, but we didn’t see each other very much those first few weeks of summer.
He was busy. I was busy.
Mostly I think we were busy avoiding each other. Even though we hadn’t wanted that kiss to be a big thing, it had been a big thing. It took a while for the ghost of that kiss to disappear.
One morning, when I came back from my run, my mom was gone. She left a note telling me she was going to spend the day reorganizing the food bank. “When are you going to start your Saturday afternoon shift? You promised.”
I don’t know why, but I decided to call Dante. “I’ve been volunteered to work at the food bank on Saturday afternoons. Want to volunteer with me?”
“Sure. What are we supposed to do?”
“I’m sure my mom will train us,” I said.
I was glad I asked. I missed him. I missed him more now that he was back than when he had been gone.
I didn’t know why.
I took a shower and looked at the clock. I had some time to kill. I found myself opening the drawer in the spare bedroom. I found myself holding the envelope labeled BERNARDO. I wanted to rip it open. Maybe if I ripped it open, I would also be ripping open my life.
But I just couldn’t. I threw it back in the drawer.
All day, I thought of my brother. But I didn’t even remember what he looked like.
I kept screwing up the orders at work. The manager told me to pay attention. “I’m not paying you to be pretty.”
There was a cuss word in my head. But I didn’t let it pass my lips.
I drove by Dante’s house after work. “Want to get drunk?” I said.
He studied my face. “Sure.” He had the decency not to ask me what was wrong.
I went back home and showered, washing the smell of french fries and onion rings off my skin. My dad was reading. The house seemed quiet to me. “Where’s Mom?”
“She and your sisters are in Tucson visiting your Aunt Ophelia.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“It’s just you and me.”
I nodded. “Sounds like fun.” I hadn’t meant to sound so sarcastic.
I could tell he was studying me. “Is there something wrong, Ari?”
“No. I’m going out. Dante and I, we’re going to go riding around.”
He nodded. He kept looking at me. “You seem different, Ari.”
“Different how?”
“Angry.”
If I had been braver this is what I would have said: Angry? What have I got to be angry about? You know something, Dad? I don’t really care that you can’t tell me about Vietnam. Even though I know that war owns you, I don’t care if you don’t want to talk about it. But I do care that you won’t talk about my brother. Damn it to hell, Dad, I can’t stand to live with all your silence.
I imagined his answer: All that silence has saved me, Ari. Don’t you know that? And what is this obsession you have with your brother?
I imagined my argument: Obsession, Dad? You know what I’ve learned from you and Mom? I’ve learned not to talk. I’ve learned how to keep everything I feel buried deep inside of me. And I hate you for it.
“Ari?”
I knew I was about to cry. I knew he could see that. I hated letting my dad see all that sadness inside of me.
He reached for me. “Ari—”
“Don’t touch me, Dad. Just don’t touch me.”
I don’t remember driving to Dante’s. I just remember sitting there in my truck, parked outside his house.
His parents were sitting on the front steps. They waved at me. I waved back. And then they were standing right there. At the door of my truck. And I heard Mr. Quintana’s voice. “Ari, you’re crying.”
“Yeah, that happens sometimes,” I said.
“You should come inside,” Mrs. Quintana said.