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“Heard of them. Never watched one.”
“They’re these serial television shows, kinda like soap operas. My grandmother watched them constantly. You can figure out the entire plot in the first three minutes. There’s always the cheating wife, the jilted lover, the bereaved widow, usually with heaving breasts. They’re awesome. They make Desperate Housewives look like Dora the Explorer.”
“I wouldn’t think that would be your thing. Cheesy romance.”
“I like all kinds of stuff,” Kylie says, a little defensively. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Yeah, you are.”
I mean it in a good way, but I’m not sure Kylie’s picking up on that.
“So who’s this guy singing?” I ask her.
“Luis Miguel.” Kylie looks at me expectantly, as if I know who that is.
I stare back at her. “No comprendo, chica.”
“Ahh, ¿habla usted español, amigo?”
“Not at all. I’m taking Chinese with Bernstein. So that’s pretty much the extent of my Spanish.”
“Chinese? Really? You and Sheila Nollins.”
“They’re taking over the world. Or so my dad tells me.” What I don’t say is that it was his idea. And in our house, Dad’s ideas rule.
“’Kay. Whatever. I still can’t believe you don’t know Luis Miguel,” Kylie insists.
“I’m a serious gringo. In case you haven’t figured that out.”
“Actually, I have.” Kylie smiles. She’s not being bitchy. I’m pretty sure of it.
“He’s not bad,” I concede.
“He’s, like, one of the most famous Latin singers ever. He’s won about a million Latin Grammies.”
“Yeah, I’ve missed the Latin Grammy Awards these last few years,” I say, wondering why I would ever watch them.
“You’d be surprised how good the music is. Luis Miguel is amazing. I mean, it’s not like I go ru
“Lady Gaga wouldn’t know a genuine emotion if it hit her in the face,” I say, which seems to surprise Kylie. She grins.
“So, who do you listen to?”
“I don’t know. I am into lots of different stuff. I’m kind of all over the map. I like Joh
Kylie looks like she’s trying to make sense of it. My music taste isn’t as one-dimensional as she assumed. I’m totally into music. Latin music as well. Award ceremonies just aren’t my thing. Music and old movies help me escape my shit, even if it’s fleeting. Nothing else takes me out of my head in the same way.
“What are you into?” I ask. Not because I’m trying to be polite, like in Starbucks, but because I actually want to know. The girl is a total mystery to me.
“I like almost everyone you just mentioned, with the exception of Radiohead, who I just don’t get. I’m a little a
“Totally agree.”
“And…it’s majorly queer, but I secretly love Shakira and Enrico Iglesias. And…Gloria Estefan. It’s a Latino thing.”
“Yeah, must be.”
I laugh, because it is queer. And no one I know would ever admit anything like that without a gun to their head.
“‘You know my hips don’t lie. And I’m starting to feel you boy…’” I sing, shimmying my hips as best I can in a car seat. Okay, so I know the song.
“The boy knows his Shakira.” Kylie smiles, really smiles, with her whole face.
“Shakira is seriously hot. I mean, I wouldn’t turn down a private concert.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Langston. I’m talking about her music. I have a total soft spot for Latino pop. I’m genetically inclined toward it. That and Israeli folk songs.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m kidding. Though my mom is Jewish and made me listen to them when I was little. But they’re awful.”
Thwack. A seagull hits the windshield, recovers, and then zooms away. It’s so surreal and surprising that Kylie and I start to laugh. And soon, neither of us can stop, we’re releasing the stress. It feels good. Scratch that. It feels great.
Eventually, we both catch our breath and chill.
“Wow. Kind of beautiful,” Kylie says, pointing outside the window.
We’ve been talking so much I haven’t even noticed the awesome coastline that stretches on, endlessly.
“Some nice swells out there,” I say.
I can spot surfers in the distance waiting on the waves. It would be nice to come back and shred. Like maybe when I can come by choice, on a vacation or something, instead of having been abducted.
“So what’s in this amazing speech we almost got ourselves killed for?” I ask Kylie.
“You know, just lots of brilliant insights and sage advice that will change your life.”
“That really paints a picture for me.”
“I can’t give it all away now. You have to be surprised tomorrow.”
“Just tell me one thing you’ve got.”
“Okay, well, I quote a lot of people. You know, like Winston Churchill, Bill Clinton, Desmond Tutu. And one of my favorite quotes is from Golda Meir. ‘Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life. Make the most of yourself by fa
“Sounds interesting.” And that’s all I say, which is probably not what Kylie wants to hear. But the truth is, I’m thinking she’s not blowing me away. I mean, do we really care what Golda Meir has to say? Who even knows who she is? And the quote sounds pretty standard-issue graduation speech.
“What? You don’t like it?”
“No. It’s good. It’s just…I’m sure it’ll be great. Really.” I so don’t want to get into it. I know less than nothing about graduation speeches, except the shorter the better. “Seriously, it’s a good quote. I know you’ll do an amazing job tomorrow,” I say, eager to put this conversation to bed.
“You bet I will,” Kylie says. She looks out at the road. I can tell she’s a
I never should have brought it up. Jesus, she’s sensitive. Conversationally, we’ve hit a standstill. Luckily, we don’t have much farther to go. I see a sign for Ensenada on the left. Kylie pulls off the highway. End of the road.
Kylie flags down a guy crossing the street, and in impressively fluent Spanish asks for directions to the bus station. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Jessica Bernstein’s Sweet Sixteen—June 16, 2007.” It’s pretty hilarious. I mean, I probably went to that stupid party, and somehow the T-shirt ended up on this guy’s back. Most likely some cleaning lady who takes the hand-me-downs from rich people gave it to her brother’s family back in Ensenada. What a long, strange trip that T-shirt has been on. I pull out my iPhone and snap a quick picture of him.
We drive about a mile down the road, turn in to the center of town, and park on a street that runs along the side of a big plaza. Kylie throws the keys onto the front seat.
“I am so done with this truck.”
“Tell me.”
“Now we just have to find the bus station and we’re good to go.”
“If you say so.” It’s all too easy to be believed, after the day we’ve had.
“We just have to hope the bus won’t be hijacked.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem for you. You’ll just do a Keanu and take it over.”
“So, what? You’re like a co
“Not really. But I know stuff. Yeah.”
We leave it at that.
As we walk toward the bus station, I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking the dudes are going to pop up at any moment and shoot us dead. But it doesn’t happen, and we make it to the station in one piece.
I feel a huge sense of relief as I watch the woman slide two tickets for the three o’clock bus to San Diego under the glass divider. It’s all good. Everything is going to be okay. An hour ago, I was shaken to the core, shivering in my own sweat, convinced I was about to die. And now, all I have to do is kill a few hours in Ensenada.