The Inexplicable Logic of My Life

  “Mine doesn’t. And yours doesn’t either.”

  “My life does too suck.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Your mom died, that sucks. That hurts. I get that. But your life? Your life doesn’t suck, Sammy.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Fito lives in a crack house,” I said.

  “It’s not a crack house.”

  “Looked like one to me.”

  “How many times did you go in there?”

  “Once. That was enough.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t talk like you actually know what a crack house is.”

  “Okay, okay, but you get what I’m saying. Fito’s just trying to make it through the day. Now, that’s a life that sucks.” And then I gave her one of those smirks that I gave Sam when I knew I had her on the run. “And he went to your mom’s funeral. That was sweet. You said so yourself.”

  “But Halloween’s always been our thing.”

  “I get that, Sam. It’s our tradition. But Fito’s just—​you know.”

  “I know, I know. Okay. I’m being a shit. He can come.”

  “And you like him.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do like him.”

  So we all went trick-or-treating. Sam went as Lady Gaga. Of course she did. I went as a baseball player. Sammy rolled her eyes. “Booorrrrrrriiiiiiinnnnngggg.” Fito went as a businessman vampire: tie, sports coat, black cape, and fangs. Sam was impressed.

  We were a little old for trick-or-treating—​but we didn’t care. Dorks. Actually it was fun—​and we needed to have fun. We just did. Some lady was giving out caramel apples. Sam refused hers. “They probably have razorblades in them.”

  Fito shrugged and wolfed his down, and then smiled at Sam. “See? No razorblades.”

  “Do you ever chew your food? It’s not gonna run away, you know.”

  “What are you, Ms. Etiquette? You know, sometimes, Sam, you be like the sweetest girl on the border and shit, and then other times you just got attitude. I mean, at-ti-tude.”

  “If you were a girl, you’d have my attitude too.”

  “If I were a girl, I sure as hell wouldn’t go out with the kinds of guys you hang with.”

  I laughed. Sam didn’t.

  “Oh, so you like nice boys, do you?”

  “Yeah, I like nice boys. I like boys who know how to read and don’t give me attitude. I get all the attitude I need at home.”

  Sam looked at him. I knew she was thinking. That girl was always thinking. “You got a boyfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t I see you and Angel hanging out all the time?”

  “Angel’s history.”

  “He’s cute.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s high maintenance.”

  “Examples, please.”

  Fito just looked at Sam. “I don’t do anybody else’s homework.”

  “He wanted you to do his homework?”

  “Yup.”

  “Screw that.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Guys suck.”

  Fito laughed. “Yeah, they do.”

  And I said, “I don’t suck.”

  Fito and Sam looked at each other and said, “Yeah, you do.”

  And we all cracked up. Sometimes when you laugh, it has nothing to do with whistling in the dark.

  As we walked the streets, knocking on doors for candy we didn’t need, Sam started taking lots of pictures of the little kids. “Adorable,” she said.

  “See?” I said. “You’re going to make a great mother.”

  “Maybe.”

  But she was more interested in checking out the boys who were around. Sometimes she’d look over at me and nod. “That one’s a bad boy.”

  “Keep walking,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Fito said, “keep walking.”

  Sam was Sam. Yup.

  Then one bad boy with tats stopped us and said to Sam, “You’re hot, bitch.”

  And I said, “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  And just like that, I took a swing at him. He fell back, but my punch didn’t stop him. He put up his fists and started going for me. “Let’s have at it, fucker,” he said.

  But Sam stepped in and said, “Hey! Hey! Stop it! Stop it!”

  And the guy looked at Sam, and Sam said, “Please. He didn’t mean it.”

  So the guy calmed down and walked away. But he said, “I better not find you alone, dude.”

  Sam looked at me and said, “Sally, what’s wrong? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  And I said, “I don’t know. He had no right to call you that.” I sat down on the curb. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

  I felt Sam’s arm over my shoulder. “Sally, a lot of people think I’m a bitch. Who cares? They’re just stupid boys. Who cares?”

  I sat there shaking.

  “What is it, Sally? What is it?”

  I calmed down, and I told Sam and Fito that it was just all these things coming at me and that I was fine. And then we got back into trick-or-treating and we took a bunch of selfies, and we were having fun again. When we headed back home, Dad was sitting on the front porch giving out candy to some trick-or-treaters.

  A man sat next to him.

  As we walked up the sidewalk, I could see the man’s face.

  Marcos.

  Part Four

  Maybe that’s what life was. You zigged and you zagged and zigged and zagged some more.

  (Dad) Things We Never Say (Me)

  EVEN THOUGH DAD and I had this great thing going, and even though we talked, and even though we didn’t keep a lot of secrets, there were still things we never talked about. Talking wasn’t always easy—​even for talkers. But I decided I was going to talk to him because I had too many questions hanging around in my head. And I decided I was going to post a No Loitering sign right there in my brain.

  Sam had spent the night with her Aunt Lina. I guess they had things to talk about too.

  It was a warm Saturday afternoon. Maggie was rolling around in the grass in the backyard.

  Dad was sitting on the steps having a cigarette.

  I sat next to him and said, “Can I have a drag?”

  We both busted out laughing.

  “I never want you to smoke. Not ever.”

  “Not to worry, Dad. I don’t like those things.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “Then why do you smoke?”

  “Ahh, they keep me company sometimes. It’s a very uncomplicated relationship.”

  “Yeah, you smoke them and they give you cancer.”

  “And emphysema.”

  “And heart disease.”

  “Are we going to run down the whole list?”

  “Nope. Don’t really want to talk about cigarettes.”

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Why haven’t you ever had a boyfriend?”

  “I have had a boyfriend. I’ve had several.”

  “Before me or after me?”

  “Both.”

  “Yeah, but not lately.”

  “Well, lately I’ve been busy.”

  “That’s kinda lame, Dad.”

  “Lame? Me? The place isn’t exactly crawling with your girlfriends.”

  “I’m not in that space right now.”

  “Maybe I’m not either.”

  “How come you never talk to me about some stuff?”

  “You mean my love life? Well, first of all, you’re my son. In my opinion, fathers shouldn’t be talking to their sons about their love lives.”

  “But, Dad, you don’t have a love life.”

  “That sounds like an accusation.”

  “It is an accusation.”

  “What’s this about, Salvie?”

  “You know what I think? I think you don’t date because of me. I think it’s my fault that you don’t have a normal life.”

&nb
sp; “I’m gay, Salvie. I’ve never had a normal life.”

  “You know what I mean, Dad. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “What do you want me to say?” He put his cigarette out. He took my hand in his and squeezed it.

  “Dad,” I whispered, “was Marcos your boyfriend?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, he was.”

  “What happened?”

  My dad was looking up at the sky. Then he said, “He told me he couldn’t handle being a stepfather.”

  “So you chose me.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “So it is my fault.”

  My father looked straight at me. And then he kissed my forehead. He let go of my hand and put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it. “Don’t be an idiot, Salvador. You never were very good at doing math. Look, if Marcos couldn’t handle me being a father—​well, that was his problem. Not my fault. Nor your fault. It was him. We’re a package deal, you and I. And I can’t be with anyone who doesn’t get what you and I have.”

  I nodded.

  He lit his cigarette.

  “Did you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still? Love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe that’s why Mima said you were lonely.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yup. You never stopped loving him?”

  “I guess not. I guess a guy like me just doesn’t know how to stop loving someone.”

  I could tell he wanted to cry. But he didn’t.

  “Fito said the problem with being gay was that you had to date guys.”

  Dad laughed. “Fito’s funny. I didn’t know he was gay.”

  “I didn’t either. But now I do.”

  “Is he good with that?”

  “Yeah, I think so. It’s his family that sucks. It’s like he kind of raised himself.”

  “That’s tough.”

  It was good to talk to my dad. I leaned my head on his shoulder. “Dad,” I whispered, “you should let other people take care of you sometimes.”

  “I guess I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Well, you can learn, can’t you?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I can. Maybe you can help me.”

  And I wanted to learn too, to learn how to take care of my dad when he needed taking care of. But I didn’t know how.

  Me. Secrets.

  OKAY, SO I didn’t tell my dad that I’d started going around taking swings at guys who pissed me off. And I didn’t tell my dad that I had this fantasy about beating the crap out of Eddie. And I didn’t tell my dad that I kept wondering what it would be like to get drunk. And that I didn’t even know where that thought came from. And I didn’t tell my dad that there was this strange anger living inside me. And I didn’t tell my dad that I was sort of mad that he’d given me my mother’s letter and that maybe he should have waited. And I didn’t tell my dad that I was mad at my mother for having left me a letter in the first place. And I didn’t tell my dad that I felt guilty about the fact that I’d hated Sylvia and that I didn’t know what to do about that because she was dead.

  And I didn’t tell my dad that maybe I wasn’t so sure about Marcos hanging around, because even though I thought my dad should have a boyfriend in theory, I just didn’t know about that Marcos guy. And when I asked him if he still loved him and he said yes, I wasn’t sure that I liked the answer.

  And I didn’t tell my dad that I was having thoughts about my bio father. I was wondering if I looked like him, if I acted like him, and that I was starting to have thoughts that maybe I should at least meet him.

  Sam had met her father.

  Fito had met his father.

  And then there was me.

  How could I tell my dad all these things I hadn’t told him?

  Marcos? Hmm.

  I TEXTED SAM: Asked Dad about Marcos.

  Sam: Wow! Spill it

  Me: When u get back

  Sam: B home soon. Lina and I cleaned up house. C u in ten

  Me: Wftd = sacrifice

  Sam: As in human sacrifice?

  Me: Wrong!

  Sam: Use in sentence

  Me: My father knows the meaning of the word sacrifice

  Sam: Yup

  So when Sam got home, I told her about the conversation I’d had with my father. She listened, asked questions. She loved asking questions. And of course she had a few things to say about the whole situation. “That shit Marcos broke your father’s heart. I knew there was a reason I hated him.”

  “He didn’t do anything to you, Sam. It’s not your place to hate him.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “No, it isn’t. Dad doesn’t hate him. And if Dad doesn’t hate him, I won’t hate him.” God, I could be such a hypocrite.

  Sam looked at me. “You know, you and your dad, not normal. Sometimes not normal is no bueno. Why do you guys always walk around being so nice? I mean, it just isn’t normal.” She kept shaking her head. “And it’s not fair. Marcos gets away with being a shit.”

  “What do we know about Marcos, Sammy?”

  “We know he’s a worm who came crawling back to the surface after the rain.”

  Sam, she was always good for a laugh.

  “Don’t laugh. It was not a joke.”

  “Maybe he realized he was wrong.”

  “Sally, do you always have to interpret reality with the naiveté of a ten-year-old? Really?”

  “Sammy, I don’t know a damn thing about reality. And I’m not a ten-year-old.”

  “So is Marcos gonna be hanging around, stinking up the place?”

  I don’t know why, but I laughed again.

  Sam kept yelling at me, which made me laugh even harder.

  But really, I felt the same way she did. Only she was honest about it.

  Cake

  IT WAS A Saturday evening, and I was hanging out in my room, thinking about that college thing again and that I didn’t really want to go. I mean, I did want to go, but only after taking a year off. You know, to find myself. Well, that was lame. But it was true. Was there such a thing as being a little lost? I mean, if you were lost—​well, then you were lost. I didn’t know shit. I was going through the motions. Maybe a lot of people just went through the motions. Maybe that worked for some people. But I knew that the going‑through-the-motions thing wasn’t going to work for me. No bueno.

  Sam was in her room working on her admissions essay. I didn’t have to wonder what she was going to say, because I knew she’d make me read it. And she’d want to read mine. And I didn’t have one to read. What was I supposed to say: Take me. You won’t be sorry. I’m the greatest thing since the invention of the cell phone? We were supposed to talk about ourselves. Yeah. Hello, they call me Mr. Excitement. But I am pretty good in a fight.

  Sam texted me: Have a good idea for my essay. U?

  Me: No ideas. Not good at selling myself

  Sam: I’ll help you

  Me: I’m worthless

  Sam: Ur not. Don’t ever say that

  Me: I thought u were mad at me

  Sam: Nope. We should bake a cake

  Me: What?

  Sam: U know, a cake?

  Me: U know how?

  Sam: No. But u do

  Me: Where is the we?

  Sam: Teach me. We can take it to Mima tomorrow

  Me: Good idea

  Sam: And we can take her flowers

  Me: The evil Sam went away?

  Sam: No worries. She’ll come back

  Me. Saturday Night. Sam.

  WE WERE IN THE KITCHEN, and I was teaching Sam how to make a chocolate cake from scratch.

  “Why not just bake from one of those Betty Crocker boxes?” she said.

  “I’m impressed. You know about Betty Crocker.”

  “Go ahead. Mock me.”

  We gave each other looks. Yup, we were all about giving each other looks. “See, Sammy, we have all the ingredients. It’s not that hard.”

 
She was watching me put in the dry ingredients as she read them aloud from the recipe book.

  “You want to know what each ingredient does?” I asked.

  “You’re really asking me that question?”

  “How are you ever going to learn to cook if you don’t know what each ingredient does for the recipe?”

  “The physics of chocolate cake? Not interested.”

  “Now who’s mocking whom?”

  She watched me as I broke two eggs and beat them. “Guess it doesn’t look that hard. Still, Betty Crocker’s easier.”

  “We’re not going for easy. We’re going for taste.”

  “Whatever.”

  “It was your idea,” I said. “You said you wanted to learn.”

  “I lied.”

  “Yup.”

  When the cake was in the oven, Sam watched as I made the frosting. “You’re not like most guys.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “What makes you so sure it was a compliment?”

  “I don’t want to be like most guys. So it was a compliment.”

  Maggie sat there and watched us as we played verbal volleyball. I always wondered what that dog was thinking. Probably nothing complicated.

  Dad walked in from the backyard, where he’d been working on a painting. “What’s with the cake?”

  “We’re making it for Mima.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  Sam smiled. “Well, we’re very sweet young people.” She couldn’t leave out that little teaspoon of sarcasm—​part of her recipe for living.

  Dad grinned. “I’m going to clean up. I’m going out tonight.”

  Sam couldn’t help herself. “Going out with anyone we know?”

  “Just a movie with an old friend.”

  It’s not as if we were surprised when the doorbell rang and it was Marcos. I had never noticed how handsome he was. Still, he wasn’t as handsome as my dad. And he was shorter. I wondered if most kids noticed their parents and how they looked. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. I hadn’t exactly taken a poll.

  Dad seemed a little embarrassed by the whole situation.

  Sammy didn’t help him out one damn bit. “Text if you’re going to be out late.”

  Marcos just shrugged and grinned at her.

  Dad couldn’t get out the door fast enough.