From What I Remember

“You’re going to have to try harder next time. Because fish eyes don’t even faze me.”

The girl hands us two more tacos. Max takes out his iPhone and snaps a picture. I lean over to see it. Then he takes a picture of me as I’m staring at my taco.

“Oh my God. Delete that. I must look terrible.”

I hate getting my picture taken.

Max looks at his iPhone. “No way. It’s a keeper. You look adorable.”

Adorable? I don’t think anyone has ever called me that. I’ve gotten interesting, appealing, and a few times, beautiful, but it doesn’t really count because it was from construction workers or the cholos down the block. They call any girl with a pulse and boobs beautiful. Most people think I’m too prickly to be adorable. Maybe adorable like a porcupine.

“Let me see that.”

I hold out my hand. Max gives me the iPhone. He’s right. It’s not a bad picture. I look good. Pretty. Happy.

Max is on his feet. He leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the table, way too much for a couple of tacos, but that’s life on the other side of the world. I wouldn’t know about that. I’m always counting out change, hoping to find an extra dollar in my backpack.

“We should head out. We don’t have a lot of time and we’ve got shit to do.”

“Like what?”

“It’s a surprise. Payback for the tripe.”

I stand and follow him out the door, eager to go where he leads, which is just too bizarre. Before today I hated Max Langston. I’m still not exactly sure how I feel about him, but I definitely don’t hate him. Though it was a lot more convenient when I thought he was a stupid asshole. It made it easier to write him off. My general policy is that I don’t need many people in my life, besides Will and Jake. There’s too much that can go wrong when you start depending on people. But really, what’s the worst that could happen? We’ve only got a few more hours together, and then we say good-bye forever.

Outside the taquería, back on one of the main streets, I get my first real look around the town. Driving in, I was still so nervous, I didn’t take much in. The town bends around the harbor, where huge cruise ships vie for space with sailboats and rickety fishing crafts. Craggy cliffs jut out above the water, which is dark green and shimmering in the afternoon sun.

“We’re going to just jump in the water. Right off the dock. ’Kay?” Max asks me, like it’s practically perfunctory.

“I don’t think so,” I say. I’m so not jumping off the dock right now.

“Give me one reason.”

“I don’t have a bathing suit. That’s just off the top of my head. But give me a minute and I’ll come up with several more.”

“We can buy bathing suits.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m not a big ocean swimmer. I’m afraid of eels.”

“Eels? I surf all the time; I’ve never seen an eel.”

“I was swimming at Ocean Beach once and an eel wrapped around my leg.”

“It was seaweed.”

“It was an eel. I swear to God.”

“So, you’ll eat a fish eyeball, but you won’t get in the ocean. Have you ever heard of managing risk?”

I laugh. In the space of ten minutes Max has gotten me to laugh three times. It’s wild how people can surprise you. But I’m still not going in the water. The truth is, I’d rather throw myself under a bus than have Max see my big Latina butt in a bathing suit. Putting on a bathing suit and jumping off a dock is not the kind of thing I just do spontaneously. It’s the kind of thing I plan for months.

“Okay. I’ve got another idea. A lot safer. No eels, no fish eyeballs. I think you’ll like this.”

Max turns and heads down another street. I follow. People are in the process of decorating their storefronts with streamers and balloons, like they’re preparing for some kind of party. Max walks with purpose. He seems to know where he’s going. Must be nice to go through life always feeling like you’re in charge. After a minute or two, he stops in front of a bar. He turns to me and smiles.

“I’ve got excellent news. I’m finally legal. The drinking age in Mexico is eighteen, and so am I. We’re go

Max ushers me into the bar. It’s housed in an old warehouse with huge wooden beams across the ceiling. I’ve never been in a bar. I’m not much of a drinker. Sure, I’ve had a glass of wine or a beer at Will’s house, but it wasn’t particularly pleasant. The whole thing always seemed like a big waste of time.

“I don’t really drink,” I say, fully aware of how lame it makes me sound, but what am I going to do, lie? Tell him I’ll have a martini, neat? It’s so not me, it’s laughable.

The bar is dark and cavernous. A few weathered drunks nurse drinks. Otherwise, the place is empty. Funky wooden stools line the black stone counter. Photographs of crazier times are tacked up on the walls, pictures of people drinking and dancing at the bar. Serious partying has happened here. We’re probably a few hours away from a wild night.

“Kylie, you don’t have to drink. Whatever. Get a Coke. I don’t even drink that much. But I really want a margarita in Mexico. You know, when in Rome…”

Max plops down on a stool. I take a seat next to him. It’s not going to kill me to hang out in a bar for an afternoon.

No one seems to work here.

“Hello?” Max yells out.

From the back we hear, “Hola. Be right there.”

A few seconds later a barrel-chested man appears. He looks about fifty, ruddy cheeked, with a full bushy beard and a little black hat, kind of like a Mexican Santa Claus crossed with an aging hipster.

“Sorry about that. My dog ran away, slipped out of the kitchen. Bastardo. He’ll come back when he’s hungry. I just hope he doesn’t eat a kid or something in the meantime.” At this, the huge man chuckles. “I’m Manuel,” he says, shooting a beefy hand at Max and then at me. “You two from the States?”

Max and I nod.

“Welcome. Welcome. Great day to be in Ensenada. Hope you’re enjoying yourselves in our humble little town.”

“We are,” Max says.

Manuel grins. I can tell he’s the kind of guy who smiles easily.

“Ensenada is an easy place to have fun.”

I like this man immediately. Good vibes circle around him.

“I’m Kylie,” I say in English, since Manuel is speaking English.

“I’m Max.”

“What are you guys doing here? School’s not out in the States for a couple of days. I wasn’t expecting anyone here until next week.”

“We dropped out. And eloped,” Max says.

I stare at Max with a look of disbelief. Max peers back, a look of mischief dancing across his face.

“The thing is,” Max continues, “we were going to have a big wedding, you know, white dress, tux, cake, and all, but then we thought it would be more romantic to come to Mexico and get married on the beach.”

Okay. Now I want to play. Is this more flirting? Or something else entirely? Whatever it is, I could get used to it. It’s challenging and fun, forcing me to think on my toes. I would have thought Max Langston was too cool for games like this. I’m certainly not.

I interrupt Max. “And with the baby coming and all, I just wasn’t up for a big wedding anymore.” I have no idea who this person is talking. But I want to be just like her someday.

Manuel’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “You had me until the baby.”

Max and I crack up.

“Tell you what. I’m going to make you guys the best margaritas you’ve ever had. And you celebrate whatever it is you want. Wedding. No wedding. Baby. No baby.”

“Thanks, man. That sounds great. But she doesn’t drink,” Max says, pointing to me.

“So there really is a baby?” Manuel asks.

“No. She just doesn’t—”

“Actually, I’d love a margarita. Salt. No ice,” I tell Manuel. It’s high time I tried one.