finally realizing this was a long-term bachelor’s house. Although he’s a clean bachelor, which is a big plus. Walking around the tiny room, I picked up a framed photograph of a very young, sweet-looking girl and slightly older, football-holding boy. They were beaming at the camera, their arms wrapped around a huge black-and-brown dog, whose face nearly took up the whole picture. The Rotty.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Esteban yelled from the kitchen.
“No thanks, I’m stuffed!” I yelled back.
Finally exhausted from a long day, I plopped down into a soft brown La-Z-Boy chair, yanked the handle, and settled back into the cushions, closing my eyes.
“I see you found a place to sit?”
I popped my eyes open and saw his gorgeous face was hovering only inches above mine. Suddenly, it felt way too warm in the room.
“Uh, yep! Great chair!” I said, way too loud. He must have sensed my nervousness, because he smiled and backed away to sit on the other side of the room. I almost sighed out loud, I was so relieved. Why does he make me so damn nervous?
“Cute kids,” I said.
“Thanks. I tried. Maybe the third one will be cuter.”
“You’re a pretty funny guy.”
“I aims ta pleaz, ma’am,” he said, in his best house-slave-imitation voice. Smartass.
“Why you always callin’ me names, white girl?” Jamal said, right behind me. I almost jumped out of the chair, he scared me so bad. What is wrong with you? Why do you do that?
“Somebody has to keep you on your toes. Ain’t gonna be this knucklehead, here,” he said, gesturing towards Esteban. Great. Disapproving Daddy makes another appearance.
“Now that we’re away from that stupid waiter, can we talk about your matchmaking thing?”
I jumped a little at the sound of Esteban’s voice. Juggling conversations with these two was not going to be easy.
“I guess so. Just try to remember I’m not the gypsy queen from the Bronx, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Uh, okay, so…where to start? Hmm…I guess the best place to start is what happened after Isabella.”
* * * *
When you’re ten years old, it seems like the whole world exists just for you. Even though we were broke as a joke, it didn’t really matter, because in 1983 a dollar could buy at least two of everything I wanted from the candy section.
“Quit hogging all the green ones!” I yelled, grabbing for the bag.
“You said I could have some. You didn’t say what color!” Chris yelled, raising the bag higher, out of my reach. In the world of kids, if you’re older or taller or stronger, you win. He was all of the above.
“I’m telling mo-om!”
“Go ahead, you big baby, tell mom everything. You know what she’s gonna say. Then you’ll be in big trouble for sure , you stupid tattletale.” One of the worst kid insults of all time. Being a tattletale was the most awful thing a kid could be, so punishment was harsh. Tortures for the crime were Indian burns, purple nurples, swirlies or mega-wedgies. Sometimes you got all of them.
“I hate you!” I yelled back, stomping over to my bike. I spend my tooth fairy money on candy, and Chris takes it all. Brothers suck.
I swiped my foot at the kick stand, ran next to the bike for a few steps, then swung my leg over the side in one motion. Sure, it took a bunch of tries (and a lot of falls) but I could finally get on my bike just like Chris and his friends. Once I got my bike going, I turned around to stick my tongue out at Chris, but he was too busy pawing through all the candy in the bag— my candy, in my bag— to pay attention. Refusing to waste the energy, I turned back around and almost crashed into a kid who was straddling his bike right in front of me.
I slammed my feet down on my pedals so hard my back tire skidded, making a crunching-squealing sound on the gravelly road. “Hey!” After my tires finally stopped sliding, I stood with my legs straddling my own bike and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Esteban yelled from the kitchen.
“No thanks, I’m stuffed!” I yelled back.
Finally exhausted from a long day, I plopped down into a soft brown La-Z-Boy chair, yanked the handle, and settled back into the cushions, closing my eyes.
“I see you found a place to sit?”
I popped my eyes open and saw his gorgeous face was hovering only inches above mine. Suddenly, it felt way too warm in the room.
“Uh, yep! Great chair!” I said, way too loud. He must have sensed my nervousness, because he smiled and backed away to sit on the other side of the room. I almost sighed out loud, I was so relieved. Why does he make me so damn nervous?
“Cute kids,” I said.
“Thanks. I tried. Maybe the third one will be cuter.”
“You’re a pretty funny guy.”
“I aims ta pleaz, ma’am,” he said, in his best house-slave-imitation voice. Smartass.
“Why you always callin’ me names, white girl?” Jamal said, right behind me. I almost jumped out of the chair, he scared me so bad. What is wrong with you? Why do you do that?
“Somebody has to keep you on your toes. Ain’t gonna be this knucklehead, here,” he said, gesturing towards Esteban. Great. Disapproving Daddy makes another appearance.
“Now that we’re away from that stupid waiter, can we talk about your matchmaking thing?”
I jumped a little at the sound of Esteban’s voice. Juggling conversations with these two was not going to be easy.
“I guess so. Just try to remember I’m not the gypsy queen from the Bronx, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Uh, okay, so…where to start? Hmm…I guess the best place to start is what happened after Isabella.”
* * * *
When you’re ten years old, it seems like the whole world exists just for you. Even though we were broke as a joke, it didn’t really matter, because in 1983 a dollar could buy at least two of everything I wanted from the candy section.
“Quit hogging all the green ones!” I yelled, grabbing for the bag.
“You said I could have some. You didn’t say what color!” Chris yelled, raising the bag higher, out of my reach. In the world of kids, if you’re older or taller or stronger, you win. He was all of the above.
“I’m telling mo-om!”
“Go ahead, you big baby, tell mom everything. You know what she’s gonna say. Then you’ll be in big trouble for sure , you stupid tattletale.” One of the worst kid insults of all time. Being a tattletale was the most awful thing a kid could be, so punishment was harsh. Tortures for the crime were Indian burns, purple nurples, swirlies or mega-wedgies. Sometimes you got all of them.
“I hate you!” I yelled back, stomping over to my bike. I spend my tooth fairy money on candy, and Chris takes it all. Brothers suck.
I swiped my foot at the kick stand, ran next to the bike for a few steps, then swung my leg over the side in one motion. Sure, it took a bunch of tries (and a lot of falls) but I could finally get on my bike just like Chris and his friends. Once I got my bike going, I turned around to stick my tongue out at Chris, but he was too busy pawing through all the candy in the bag— my candy, in my bag— to pay attention. Refusing to waste the energy, I turned back around and almost crashed into a kid who was straddling his bike right in front of me.
I slammed my feet down on my pedals so hard my back tire skidded, making a crunching-squealing sound on the gravelly road. “Hey!” After my tires finally stopped sliding, I stood with my legs straddling my own bike and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding
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