From What I Remember

eople wander in and out of stores and sit on benches eating. It’s a lively scene. Not a bad place to get stranded. Too bad Dad never brought us to Ensenada when Nana was living here. I’d actually know where to go now and what to do. Not to mention the fact that it might have been nice to get to know my father’s hometown. But just like everything else with Dad, it’s a blank page, and I’m just a tourist with a few hours to kill in a foreign city. “So what are you in the mood for? Mexican, Mexican or…Mexican?” Max asks. “Mexican sounds good.”

“Excellent. Me too. Let’s head down that way. Looks cool.”

Max places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me down a narrow alley.

I like the feel of his hand on me, guiding me, taking control, even though it’s bound to be fleeting. Max seems comfortable with the role of alpha male. I guess this is what it must be like to be Lily Wentworth, famous other half. Max takes my arm and steers me around a huge mound of garbage that I was seconds from plunging into. Not only is he not an asshole, he may actually be nice. Or nice-ish. Or maybe he just plays a nice guy in Mexico. For years, I was so sure he was a complete jerk. Maybe my snap judgments of people aren’t always so accurate. Is it possible they have more to do with me than with them?

Max points to an old-fashioned taquería. It’s less of a restaurant, more of a cross between a street vendor and a storefront. It’s probably a good choice. I remember my grandmother telling me that the best tacos are made right on the street.

Thoughts of Jake and Dad surface again. I push them down and away, but it’s not so easy. It’s like tying a brick to a body and forcing it to sink. I’ve got to do it or I’ll never get through the day.

We walk inside to find two tables, an overhead fan, and a poster of a motorcycle race on the wall. Not the most inviting atmosphere. The counter girl looks over at us, a

“¿Qué quieren?” she asks, like she’d prefer not to know.

Max looks at me.

“She wants to know what we want,” I tell him.

“What is there?” Max asks.

“¿Un menú, por favor?” I ask.

“No menú. Tacos.”

The girl stares stonily back at us. I gather she’s not going to be much help. I’m guessing this is the kind of place that serves about three or four dishes to their regular customers. Cheesecake Factory it is not. They’ve got tacos and more tacos. Luckily, I’ve got an advanced degree in tacos.

I decide to mess with Max a little. I’m not sure why; it just feels right. I sense he’ll appreciate a little game playing. Maybe this is what normal people do? Or maybe not. It’s all so strange, having lunch in Mexico with Max Langston. I’m orbiting a whole new universe, just feeling my way in the galaxy, hoping I don’t crash the ship.

I order two tacos. The girl disappears into the kitchen.

“Did you just order for me?” Max asks.

“Yep.”

“Cool. I like it when a girl takes charge.”

“Does that happen to you a lot?”

“Not usually, but today it keeps happening.”

“Well, I’m not into being submissive. I like to call the shots. So get used to it.”

“Noted. Flores calls the shots. I’ll try to fall in line.”

“Yeah. You do that, Langston. ’Cause I don’t want to have to mess with you.”

What am I saying? Who am I? It’s my voice coming out of my mouth, but it doesn’t sound like me. It sounds distinctly like I’m flirting. I’m not really sure why I’m doing this, or even if I’m doing it. I’m new at it. I could just be embarrassing myself. I should shut up now.

“So what are we having?”

“It’s a surprise.”

We take a seat at one of the rickety tables. There’s a plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth covered with cigarette holes. This place has seen better days.

“Love it. It’s all very when in Rome,” Max says.

“Yeah, too bad we’re not in Rome.”

“Ensenada isn’t so terrible. Now that we’ve got a ride home, I’m into it.”

Max is into it? Suddenly I’m nervous. That feels like pressure. Can I keep up my end of things? My confidence of only five minutes ago starts to drain away. The worries are back. Does Max think I’m a weirdo who’s trying too hard? Why do I care what he thinks? I shouldn’t. I’m sure he’s not neurotically worrying about what I think.

The girl returns with two heaping plates of food. Soft tacos with meat, cabbage, and a little sauce. It looks i

“So what is it?”

“Eat it first. Tell me what you think.”

I know if I tell him, he won’t eat it. I also know if he eats it, he’ll like it. That’s how my grandmother got me to eat it. Hopefully, he won’t think I’m a freakazoid for making him eat it.

“Wait,” I say, and squeeze a little lime onto the tacos. “Okay.”

Max takes a bite. I wait a beat as he considers it.

“Whoa. Amazing. You can order for me anytime.”

Max devours the entire thing in a matter of seconds.

“Okay. Hit me. What did I just eat? Cockroach? Poodle?”

“Nope.”

“Just tell me.”

“It’s tripe.” I pause for effect. Max looks at me, confused. “Cow stomach lining.”

Max takes out his napkin and wipes his mouth. “You’re shitting me?”

Oh, no. Is he going to throw up into the napkin? Is he pissed?

And then Max bursts out laughing. “Cool. I like cow stomach lining. Who knew?”

“You never would have eaten it if I had told you what it was.”

“Never.” Max signals to the girl. “Por favor, uno más.”

“Nicely played. I thought you couldn’t speak Spanish.”

“Learned that at a bar in San Diego. Otherwise I never would have gotten another beer. Una más Tecate. So, tell me more about your food fetishes.”

“I wouldn’t call them fetishes. Let’s just say I have an open mind.”

I’m enjoying myself, which is so not me. I rarely enjoy being in the moment. I’m usually ten to fifteen moments ahead of myself, worrying how things will turn out.

“Tell me about your open mind,” Max prods me.

“Well, I have a thing for goat. It kinda tastes like—”

“Wait, don’t tell me…chicken? Everything weird always tastes like chicken.”

“No, more like lamb. And I’ve been known to eat fish eyeballs on occasion.”

“Okay. That’s freaky. Seriously?”

“Too much information?”

“I love it. Did you ever watch that show with that crazy chef, Anthony Bourdain? Where he travels around the world eating lungs and ants and shit?”

“No Reservations. Love that show.”

“He is the coolest dude ever. I totally want to travel to wack places like that and eat funky fish-tail stew with the locals. My family basically eats roast chicken and vegetables every night. And, you know, everyone at Freiburg just wants to go out for pizza. So it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

“Except for today.”

“Yeah. Except today. Thanks.”

Max smiles at me. Our eyes meet. An electrical current shoots up my spine as we take each other in for a moment. I have to look away, afraid I’m blushing. It feels too intense, staring at him that way. I’m pretty sure any intensity is one-sided. Goose bumps form on my arm. I pray Max doesn’t notice—it’s all so teenybopper.

“Okay, tell me about the fish eyes,” Max says.

“They’re really good with sprinkles and a little whipped cream.” I stare at the table, willing myself out of this adolescent schoolgirl behavior. Max and I are just friends. New friends hanging out.

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes. I’ve only eaten them a few times. You know, when there’s a whole fish on a plate, I’ll dig out the eyeballs and take little slices out of them. They don’t really taste like much of anything. Kind of salty. It’s a parlor trick, to freak people like you out.”