An Appetite for Miracles Page 4
“Mr. Nguyen
was about to hand out
a pop quiz.
So,
you’re welcome.”
Victoria
throws an arm around me.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
I kiss her on the cheek,
grateful she quit
the dance team (the other girls never
let me hang out with them anyway)
and became an office aide.
Aunt Veronica was pissed
and told Victoria
no college
was going to accept her
if she couldn’t stick
with something
and Victoria said
college
was for the birds.
Something Grandpa
used to say
because,
to him,
classrooms
with four walls
were the worst kind.
Because,
to him,
the best way to learn
was to fall
into the world
head first.
Victoria was grounded
for a whole month.
But here,
on the other side,
she’s back
to breaking the rules,
more than happy
to show me how.
I finally ask, “Where to?”
She raises an eyebrow,
the arch perfectly
penciled in.
“Luchas?”
I’m already salivating.
“Luchas.”
We skip out
through the side doors,
cross the parking lot,
and hop the chain-link fence.
On the way,
we pass the soccer field
where Javi Montoya,
Victoria’s latest crush,
is running
shirtless.
She stares.
We both do.
“When is he finally going to ask you out?” I say.
She gives him a small wave,
her lashes fluttering,
drawing his gaze
like a fish on a hook.
He flops like one too,
losing the ball
while his teammates groan.
Then they spot us,
whistling and hooting
until my skin is on fire
until I like the way it feels.
Victoria looks back one more time
before answering my question.
“I already did.”
“Wait.
You asked him out?”
“He was taking too long.”
She clicks her teeth.
“Now I’m the one in control.”
This is the thing about Victoria.
She is always in control.
Even when she’s not.
“You’re amazing.”
“I’m bored.”
She takes my hand,
leading us
across the street
while the pedestrian signal
screams red.
Grandpa put Luchas
on the map
with a five-hundred-word
article in the New York Times.
He raved about their
adobo recipe,
their pork roasting method,
and coconut horchata,
every word he wrote
settling on the tongue
as if you were eating right next to him.
As we enter, I’m almost
knocked back
by the smell of comino and lime,
the citrus sticking
to the back of my throat.
Victoria and I both reach
to graze the framed article
hanging by the door,
my hand lingering over
the photo of Grandpa
and the owner, Mr. Gomez,
laughing together
over a story
I’ll never know.
We order
al pastor tacos,
with cilantro
extra onions
and tomatillo salsa.
Grease and pineapple juice
drip down our faces
while we
laugh
(and almost choke)
as we act out
Victoria’s
idea of a
perfect date.
“And then he’ll
take my hand across the table,
look into my eyes,
and tell me how in love he is with me.”
Victoria beams.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“And you’ll say?”
She squeezes my hand
like I’m Javi Montoya,
desperate
and waiting
on the other side
of the table.
“I’ll say…”
She stares deep into my eyes.
“I.”
She leans across the table.
“Love.”
She licks her lips.
“Tacos.”
I snort.
She cackles.
Falling over ourselves
at the thought
that anything
could be better
than
the perfect
taco.
Drifting
I try to hold on
to the laughter,
like a tether.
But I feel myself
drifting
farther and farther
away from
reality,
from this body
I don’t always hate.
But you should.
Mami’s voice
is a flame at the back
of my skull.
The one
she doesn’t even
have to use anymore
because
every cell in me
has it memorized.
The one that
whispers praise
for a growling stomach.
The one that
slips over me
like a straitjacket,
squeezing
until I make myself
small.
I go quiet.
It squeezes
and Victoria takes my hand.
Stain
I don’t make it
to my room
before Mami sees
me.
“Danna.”
I stop
at the sound of her voice,
hoping she doesn’t know
about me skipping class;
or hoping that’s all there is
for her to fume over.
I draw near.
The temperature spikes.
“Hi, Mami.”
I smile
like I’m happy
to see her.
But it makes her brow furrow;
her arms cross.
“What’s that?”
She runs a sharp
acrylic fingernail
from the corner
of my mouth
down
to my shirt.
And there
just over my racing heart
is a golden grease stain.
All the evidence she needs
to know
that, unlike Victoria,
I am not in control.
Papi senses
the tension
and it draws him out
of the kitchen.
“Hey, mija.”
He is a light
at the end
of the hallway.
“Want to help me with dinner?”
Mami answers
for me.
“She already ate.”
Raúl
Spark
My uncle
saves me
from the torture
of riding the bus.
Instead,
he scoops me up
in his old
Chevy pickup truck
and I burn
my hand
on the metal seat belt,
hissing
as I click it in place
before
we drive
to the first client’s
house.
He laughs.
“You burn up
those fingers
and I won’t
be able to
hide
my imperfections
behind
your playing.”
I want to tell him
that my playing
doesn’t hide a thing.
But I don’t.
Pastors have huge egos
and every single one of them
thinks they can sing.
Even if it sounds
like the second
a wild animal
becomes
roadkill.
It’s part of
the perception
that they’re
special.
Even though
they are
usually
more flawed
than most.
My mom says
it’s because
the Devil
only goes after
righteous men.
He doesn’t waste his time
with the average
human.
No,
the fun
is in the fall,
the dragging
&
nbsp; someone down
from the
mountaintop.
Satan would know.
He fell farther than anyone.
My uncle’s not a bad person.
In fact, he’s a really good person
who spends all his time
trying to save people’s souls,
to bolster them
in times of need,
to love them
when they
don’t know
how to love themselves.
But he also
uses food
to make himself feel
rich. And
he would rather
keep his failing flock
than actually
shepherd them
toward truth.
Which is why
he shouts
about apathy
from the pulpit
but never confronts
anyone to their face.
Still,
he tries.
And he pays me
good money
to help him
help others.
Basically,
we are a human jukebox
and through the power of music,
we lead people
back to the life
they once had.
Alzheimer’s patients.
Stroke victims.
People with PTSD.
Anyone who has lost
a piece of themselves,
we try
to help them
get it back.
At first,
I hated
going into strangers’ homes.
But now,
I’d do it
even if he didn’t pay me.
(I won’t tell him that.)
The truth is,
it makes me feel
good
to help people find
the parts of themselves
they thought they’d lost.
Even if it’s just
for a second.
Even if it’s just
for the length
of a single song.
I like watching
the past
light
behind their eyes
like a match.
Even if the fire
doesn’t catch,
even if it’s just
a spark,
it makes me hope
that
maybe
someday
I can
find my way back
to the Raúl
I used to be
before
everything
gentle in me
hardened
or hid.
Before I used
my own spark
to set fire
to the things
I used to
love.
Salvage
Mr. Villarreal
is all smiles.
Like he knows
that we’re here
to see him
but not that
it’s because he’s sick
or because his family is desperate
and scared
and all the other
punch-in-the-gut feelings
you have
when someone you love
is dying.
He doesn’t know he’s dying.
That is the real gift
families give
when they pay us
fifty dollars an hour
for “music therapy.”
The illusion is the gift.
The songs about Jesus,
about falling in love,
about the past,
they wrench the sands
back through
the neck
of the hourglass.
While we sing “Amor de Mis Amores,”
I watch it happen.
I strum, my uncle
filling in the words
he can’t remember
with quick glances
at his computer.
Mr. Villarreal’s eyes light up
as we play his request—
his wife’s favorite song.
I can’t read music
so I do my best
to remember
how the song sounded
in my grandparents’ living
room when they were still
alive.
“Aurora,”
Mr. Villarreal taps his knee,
leading my strumming
as much as my own memory.
“Aurora, you have to come hear this.”
He searches the empty hallway,
before looking toward the front door.
She doesn’t come
and I suspect
she isn’t here.
The only grain of sand
we can’t salvage.
“Aurora?”
The song ends,
wrapping us in a silence
that bleeds.
Mr. Villarreal blinks,
the joy slipping
fast from his face,
like he’s searching
through fog.
“I’m here, Grandpa.”
A girl about my age
walks into the room
and curls up
on the couch next to Mr. Villarreal.
“Danna…”
He pets her hair.
“This is my granddaughter, Danna.”
My uncle reaches for her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Danna.”
I reach out next. “Raúl.”
She touches my hand.
Her cheeks go pink.
“Hi, Raúl.”
Mr. Villarreal’s Granddaughter
He smooths her hair,
repeating her name
like some part of him knows
she longs to hear it.
She looks up at him,
that longing
sparkling in her eyes
like she’s trying
not to cry.
And I wonder
how often
she gets erased
from his memory.
As she finally lets go of my hand,
I wonder
if I’ll ever be able
to erase her
from mine.
Mr. Villarreal’s Granddaughter Part Two
Danna picks the next song.
“Es Mi Niña Bonita.”
She says,
“It’s the song
we danced to
at my quinces,
Grandpa,
do you remember?”
I carefully
pluck the strings
like they’re a secret
code
I can crack
with precision.
But I’m also trying
not to stare
at Danna
and the small
grease stain
on her chest
just above
where the shape
of her bra
shows beneath
her shirt.
Mr. Villarreal’s Granddaughter Part Three