The Inexplicable Logic of My Life

  Fito: Sweet

  Maggie and I went out to sit on the front steps a little after eleven to wait for Fito. I didn’t normally stay up late on a school night unless I was doing homework, but I wasn’t out there long. Maggie barked, and Fito appeared out of the darkness. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey. What up?”

  “The stars,” I said.

  Fito grinned. “Got no time to look up at the stars.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yup.”

  We went inside and I made Fito a sandwich. “Don’t you want one?” he asked.

  “Nah. I think I’ll just make some popcorn.”

  “You got popcorn?”

  “Yup.” I grabbed a bag and put it in the microwave. Fito was chowing down. “Don’t you ever eat?”

  “Oh yeah, my mom’s a regular chef.” He sort of laughed. “My mom gets food stamps. She fuckin’ sells her Lone Star card for drugs.”

  “No bueno,” I said.

  “No bueno is right,” he said. “So where’s your dad?”

  “My Mima’s sick. Cancer. They took her to the Mayo in Scottsdale to check things out. So he’ll be gone a few days.”

  “That sucks about your Mima.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

  “That’s not good. When I get to thinking, I wind up in a bad place.”

  “I guess I do too. But, well, you know that thing about the unexamined life that Mrs. Sosa is always talking about?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Sosa.” And then he put on the voice of our English teacher, and he got this really goofy look on his face. “‘The unexamined life is not worth living. Are you listening to me, Fito? Can you tell me which philosopher said this?’” And then he laughed. “That teach always thinks I’m not listening. Shit, I’m always listening.”

  People never gave Fito enough credit. I hated that. Not even Sam gave him enough credit.

  It was good to sit there and talk to Fito. We talked about school and teachers, and we ate popcorn and then ate more popcorn and drank a couple of Cokes. And then Fito, out of nowhere says, “You know, someday I’m gonna go looking for my father.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yup. I mean, me and him have a chance. You know, to have something.”

  I nodded.

  “You ever gonna go looking for your bio dad?” That’s how he put it, my bio dad.

  “What would I say to him?”

  Fito shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it would just answer a question you had in your head.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” Fito was good at reading people. Then he said, “So how did you get the name Salvador?”

  “Good question.”

  “I mean, your mom was a gringa, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “And I take it your bio dad wasn’t Mexican.”

  “Don’t think so. I don’t know. She just liked the name, I guess.”

  “It’s a pretty heavy-duty name.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Then I looked at him and asked, “What’s your real name, Fito?”

  “Adam.”

  “No frickin’ way. Adam?”

  “Yup. My mom, when I was born, she’d been clean for a while, and Adam, well, he was the new man and I was supposed to represent the new life. And hell, we know how that turned out. And I don’t know, my brothers always called me Fito because I had little feet. So feet equals Fito.” He shrugged. “Stupid. I have a stupid family.”

  “I like Fito,” I said.

  “I like Fito too,” he said.

  Dad called every day.

  We talked, but he didn’t seem like himself. And there wasn’t that much to talk about. Or maybe there was too much to talk about. Still, it was good to hear his voice, and I liked that he told me he loved me. I wondered if it was easier for him to say the words I love you because he was gay. I asked Sam about that. She said, “Don’t be stupid, Sally.”

  Even a smart guy could be stupid. I was living proof.

  The rest of the week that Dad was gone, I got on Facebook—​not that I was big Facebooker and not that I posted anything. I was one of those that just like to read everybody else’s posts. I guess I just needed some company. My friends mostly posted stupid stuff. But sometimes I didn’t mind stupid. I always clicked on LIKE. I guess you could say I was an indiscriminate liker. No harm done. My way of making people feel good. When I logged off, I scooped myself a whole bowl of ice cream. I sat on the back steps and stared out at the stars. I remember teaching Mima the constellations and how she’d been so proud of me because I’d been interested in the heavens. And I remembered what Fito said—​Got no time to look up at the stars.

  As I sat there and looked up at all the stars, I felt really, really small.

  Me and Sam

  SAM TEXTED ME: Friday! Slumber party!

  I texted back: Slumber party!

  God, we could be such dorks. But if I ever said that to Sam, she’d be pissed. She wasn’t going for dork. No way in hell. Then I got to thinking that most people thought I was the boy who kept Sam from walking on the wrong side of the street. People gave me too much credit.

  She came over and asked the eternal question: “What’s for dinner?” God, for a girl who ate the way she did, you’d think she’d be fat. But nope, she wasn’t.

  “We could order pizza.”

  “Ardovino’s!”

  “Yup.”

  “They don’t deliver.”

  “Dad left the car.”

  She was already on her cell phone, ordering the pizza.

  “Don’t forget the salad.”

  We decided to watch an old movie from my dad’s collection. “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Sam said.

  “I just watched that with my dad.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “Tough cookies, baby. It’s not going to kill you to watch it again.”

  “Really,” I said. “Look, they published that sequel thing—​and Atticus turns out to be a racist.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and have you read that book?”

  “No, but—”

  “But—​but nothing, Sally. In this version, Atticus is not a racist. So let’s focus, Sal.”

  I don’t know why I bothered arguing with Sam. The result was always the same. So rather than prolong a debate that I was destined to lose, I just said, “Next time I get to pick.”

  “Deal.”

  In the middle of the movie Sam poked me and said, “I think your dad’s a little like Atticus Finch.”

  “The unracist one.”

  “Yup, that one.”

  “You think so, Sammy?”

  “Yup. And he’s just as handsome as Gregory Peck.”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “How come when you sleep over, you always get the bed?”

  “’Cause I’m the girl.”

  “Sometimes you’re so full of shit, Sam.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “And how come you always get to sleep with Maggie?”

  “You should ask Maggie that.”

  I looked at Maggie: “Traitor.” Then I looked at Sam. “I think you should sleep on the floor sometimes.”

  “Shut up.” She turned off the light. “Go to sleep.” But we couldn’t stop laughing.

  Everything was quiet. Then I heard Sam say, “Tell me a secret.”

  “A secret.”

  “We all have them.”

  “You first.”

  She was real quiet. Then she said, “I’m still a virgin.”

  I was smiling to myself, happy that she hadn’t slept with any of those bad boys. “I am too.”

  She laughed. “Everyone knows that, you idiot. Tell me a real secret.”

  I didn’t know I was going to tell her. “I have a letter from my mother.”

  “What? Really? Really?”

  “Yeah, my dad gave it to m
e.”

  “When?”

  “A while ago.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I haven’t opened it.”

  “What? What’s wrong with you?” She turned on the light so I could see that look of hers. “You have a letter from your mother, your mother who’s dead, and you haven’t opened it? What an asshole.”

  “I’m not an asshole. I’m just not ready to open it.”

  “Well, when will you be ready? After the earth dies from global warming?”

  “Now you’re being an asshole.”

  “Okay, talk to me. I knew something was going on with you. I just knew it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Don’t yeah, yeah me, you jerk. Talk to me.”

  “It’s just that, well, I’m not ready.”

  “What is that about?”

  “I don’t have an answer.”

  I could tell she was exasperated. “Look, I’ll read it to you,” she said.

  “That is exactly what I thought you’d say—​which is exactly why I didn’t tell you about it.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long time—​but I could tell she was pouting. She turned off the light.

  “Don’t be mad at me, Sam,” I whispered.

  “Are you scared to read what it says?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Why, Sally?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know what I think? I think you’re angry with your mom. Because she died. You just never let yourself in on that dirty little secret.”

  “Oh, so now you’re the frickin’ Dalai Lama?”

  “Yup.”

  I gave her a snarky smile in the dark.

  “Well, when you’re ready and you read it, Sally, will you tell me what she said?”

  “I promise. And will you promise not to nag me about it?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m glad we’re friends, Sammy.”

  “Me too, Sally.”

  She stopped talking, and I could hear her breathing. I wondered why girls didn’t snore. Maybe they did, but Sam didn’t. I knew I snored sometimes. I was no expert on snoring. I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag and started making a list of things I was no expert on. Cancer. Girls. Gay men. Mothers. Bio fathers. Nature vs. nurture. Anger. Fear. Prayer. I fell asleep in the middle of making my list.

  Me and Dad

  I WOKE UP EARLY. Sam was fast asleep. She was definitely a sleeper. Me, well, not so much.

  I sat and watched the sun come up. My dad called. He said Uncle Julian had taken time off and was going to Scottsdale to be with Mima while she was at the Mayo. “I’m flying home tonight.”

  “Flying? I thought you drove.”

  “No. The drive was too long for Mima. And the flight’s only an hour.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought I’d told you.”

  “Guess I didn’t remember. Glad you’re coming home,” I said. “The fort isn’t the same without you.”

  “What? You didn’t tear up the place?”

  “Nah. Sam came over. We had our usual slumber party.”

  “You didn’t practice any more kissing, did you?”

  “Course not. I should never have told you.”

  “Just checking.”

  I noticed he didn’t say anything about Mima. If the news had been good, he would have said something.

  Sylvia

  I WAS MAKING OMELETS, and Sam was feeding Maggie bacon. “It’s bad for her,” I said.

  “She doesn’t seem to think so.”

  I gave her a look.

  She gave me a look back. Then she started texting.

  “Who you texting?”

  “It’s private.”

  “Yeah, well, if it’s so private, why are you doing it in front of me?” I gave her one of my best smirks.

  “If you must know.”

  “And I must.”

  “I’m texting Sylvia. We’re supposed to go shopping today.”

  “That’s nice. More shoes.”

  “That was just a phase.”

  “Bullshit. Hummingbirds were a phase. Well, you relapsed on that phase and it came back. But shoes. That’s chronic.”

  “Chronic?”

  “Yup. So what’s the new phase?”

  “Vinyl.”

  “Vinyl?”

  “Sylvia has old albums and a record player. I took it out the other day and played some of her stuff. It belonged to her uncle. I have to hand it to Sylvia. She can’t keep a clean house, but she can keep her old record collection in mint condition. Go fucking figure.”

  “There’s that word again.”

  “Say it with me.” That girl could smile.

  “Nope.”

  “C’mon. It won’t kill you.”

  “I use that word sparingly.”

  “I bet you’re gonna marry a bad girl.”

  “Nope.”

  She shook her head. She kept playing with her phone. “Sylvia didn’t text me back. She promised. She’s trying to make up for the fact that I’m not allowed to go out on any more dates unless she meets the guy first. And she promised, if I behaved myself, we’d discuss my application to Stanford. If I behaved? What does that mean? Who gets to evaluate my behavior? Me or her?”

  “I think she gets the honors,” I said. “And at least she’s being motherly. That’s progress.”

  “Not in my world.”

  “You want her involved or not?”

  “Involved? She’s the one who got me addicted to uninvolved. So what’s a girl to do?”

  “Go with it.”

  “I’ll try it on for size. But if it doesn’t work for me, I’ll tell her to buzz off.”

  I put her omelet in front of her. “Just the way you like ’em.”

  She smiled as she was calling her mother. “You can always work as a short-order cook.”

  “Oh yeah, my life’s ambition.”

  “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “Her phone went straight to voice mail. Things never change. The boyfriends always come first.”

  “Relax. It’s not even noon yet.”

  “She usually gets home by ten.”

  “Well, maybe this guy’s special.”

  “They’re all special.”

  That’s when her phone rang.

  It was all so strange, almost as if we’d been walking along in one direction and all of a sudden we were going in another and we were suddenly on an unfamiliar road, finding our way in the dark, and we didn’t know where we were going anymore. We’d been so sure of ourselves, but now we were lost. Lost like we’d never been lost before. I heard Sam’s voice as she answered the telephone—​“Yes, this is Samantha Diaz . . .”—​and I watched as Sam kept nodding, and then the tears came flooding down her face and she kept whispering in disbelief, “But how, when, no no.” And then she looked at me with those pleading, hurt eyes, asking me to tell her that this wasn’t real, that it wasn’t happening, and she whimpered, “Sally, Sally, Sally. She’s dead, Sally, she’s dead.”

  I remembered what Dad said when we’d picked Sam up from Walgreens that night. “I gotcha,” I whispered. “I gotcha, Sam.” And I held her.

  Sam and Me and Death

  WHAT DID I know about death? Hell, I didn’t even know very much about life. Sam sobbed on my shoulder as I called Dad. “Are you almost home?”

  “I’m at the airport.”

  I was trembling, and crying too—​though I didn’t know why I was crying. Yes, I did know. I was scared. I was so scared. And I couldn’t stand it. That the hurt in Sam was so bad.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sylvia, Dad. She and her boyfriend . . .”

  “She and her boyfriend what, Salvie?”

  If I said the words, the whole thing would be true. And I didn’t want it to be true.

  “Salvie?”

  Then I blurted out the words. “They were killed in a car accident.”

  My
dad was quiet on the other end of the phone. “Where’s Sam?”

  “She’s here.”

  “Good,” Dad said. “Does her aunt know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How’s Sam?”

  “She’s crying on my shoulder.”

  “She’s going to need that shoulder. Call her aunt. I’m about to board the plane.”

  “Dad?”

  “What, son?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, Dad.” I was trying to keep myself from falling apart, but I knew Sam needed me, so I just took a swallow, like I was drinking a glass of water and a Tylenol, and made myself stop shaking. “Dad, just come home.”

  “The flight’s only an hour,” he said. “Just stay calm.”

  Sam and I hung on to each other. That’s what we did, we hung on to each other. “I’m here, Sam. I’m here. I’m always gonna be here.”

  “Promise,” she whispered.

  “Promise.”

  I thought of Sylvia.

  Sylvia would never be coming back. Not ever.

  I thought of my mom.

  Part Three

  Somehow, because she was all over the map, it helped me to not be all over the map. That didn’t make sense, but me and Sam, what we had, well, it had a logic all its own.

  WFTD = Comfort

  WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN the time I called Dad and the time he arrived, well, I’m not very clear about that. I remember Sam sitting in my dad’s reading chair, stunned or numb or—​I don’t know, I can’t explain. Everything was I don’t know, I can’t explain. Everything. I do remember that Sam got into the shower. I could hear her sobbing through the walls. I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t know exactly what was going on in her heart—​some kind of riot, I think. Maybe she was fighting with herself, feeling guilty because she and her mother had had such a difficult relationship—​a relationship that was almost unkind. Difficult. I guess sometimes love is difficult and complicated. Guess I’d known that. But no, I hadn’t known that.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen pain written on a face. Not that kind of pain. It was something awful. And I had this thing going on in the pit of my stomach, and it wouldn’t go away.

  I remember asking Sam for her aunt’s number. “Her name’s Lina,” Sam whispered as she handed me her cell. I must have called her—​but I don’t remember. I must have called her, because she showed up at the door and I know Sam didn’t call her. I think I knew she existed, but I’d never met her. She looked like Sylvia—​only she was a little older. And she seemed a lot softer than Sylvia. She looked at me and I looked at her. “So you’re Sal?” she said.