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“Did you hear what I said?”
“Not really. I couldn’t stop thinking about your addiction to blue Play-Doh in kindergarten and how your mother freaked out when she looked in the toilet.”
“Fu
“I don’t think I want to.”
“I asked if you’re going to miss Freiburg.”
“God no. I hate the place.”
Max looks surprised by my answer. “Really? That sucks.”
“It’s no biggie. I learned to deal.”
“But you’ll miss Will, right?”
“I’ll talk to Will all the time, so there’s nothing to miss.”
“Yeah, but it’s different after high school. You can’t hang with people like you used to. I mean, for the first time in fifteen years, Charlie and I will be in different schools. It’s weird. I’m go
“Better half? I don’t think so.”
“Trust me, he’s a much nicer guy. What do you have against Charlie?”
“Nothing, really.”
“You think he’s a dumb rich jock, like me, right?”
I don’t reply. What can I say?
“That’s a cheap shot. You may be right about me, but there’s a lot more to Charlie than that. He’s always been there for me. And I’m not sure I can say the same thing.”
“For the record, I don’t think you’re a dumb jock. And I’m sure Charlie’s a great guy once you get to know him.” Ugh. Whatever. How did we get to the place where we’re talking about Charlie Peters? It was much more fun when we were discussing blue Play-Doh. “You know what? I think we need another margarita,” I say, pointing to our empty glasses. I want to get this party back on track. We seem to have veered off course.
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a bundle of contradictions.”
“You sure are.”
I’m not sure what he means. Is that a good thing?
“What do you say? Another margarita? Or should we try a shot? I’m buying,” I say. I’m out of my comfort zone and drop-kicking the rulebook.
“You don’t want to pound tequila first time out of the box. I’ve been there. It’s not pretty.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
I’m liking the buzz and I want it to keep on keeping on. The circuit of worries looping through my brain has stopped for the moment. I’m not thinking about Jake or Mom or Dad or school or…anything, really. I’m just hanging, without a care. Is this what everyone else feels like all the time?
“We should pace ourselves. Tequila can give you a crazy headache.”
Max puts his hand on my arm as if that will slow me down. It doesn’t. Instead it speeds everything up. My whole body is spi
“I’d like one more, please,” I say to Manuel, ignoring Max.
Max interrupts. “Could we get some water first? And maybe some chips?”
“Water and chips coming right up,” Manuel promises.
“And then another margarita,” I remind Manuel.
Manuel looks at me askance. “Only got two hands, darling. All in good time.”
Manuel’s been watching us, since there’s no one else here. He’s probably nervous I’m going to puke all over his bar.
He sets two glasses of water in front of us and then pulls out an iPod and puts on some music. He’s obviously delaying the margarita. Whatever. I can wait. I’m having the second margarita, and possibly a third, if Will doesn’t get here and spoil the fun.
Hard-core Mexican rap blasts from the speakers. It’s kind of brain numbing, or maybe that’s the alcohol.
“What do you guys think of this?” Manuel says. “It’s my nephew’s band. I told him I’d play it. But I think it’s going to drive customers away.”
“I like it,” Max says.
“I don’t,” I say. “Can you put on something else?”
“Don’t hold back, tell him what you really think, Kylie,” Max says.
Manuel laughs. “It’s fine by me. I’d rather hear the truth than some bull.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Even without alcohol, she can be kinda harsh,” Max tells Manuel.
Max squeezes my shoulder playfully. I guess he’s kidding. I can’t help but notice it’s the second time he’s touched me in the past five minutes. But who’s counting?
Manuel fiddles with the iPod, and soon we’re listening to this incredible guitar music, sort of classical meets gypsy meets Jimi Hendrix. I like it. It’s a lot better than the nephew’s band.
“This is Rodrigo y Gabriela, right?” Max says. “I love them.”
“They’re fantastic, no?” Manuel asks Max.
“Totally. My brother used to play them all the time. He took me to see them in San Diego. They killed it,” Max says.
“They used to be in a Mexican thrash band, like heavy metal. But now they’re totally acoustic.”
“They live in Ireland, right?”
“Yep. Dublin. They’re huge over there.”
“My brother says they’re about to blow up in the States.”
“I knew them when they were nobody. They played right here in the bar a bunch of times.”
“No way,” Max says, impressed.
They are still nobody to me, but their music is freaking awesome. It’s sexy, fast, and rhythmic. It’s a good soundtrack for hanging out in a bar in Ensenada with a boy I barely know. It’s the kind of music, in a movie, that underscores scenes where people go off the rails and do the unexpected, like sky-dive, bungee jump, or fall in love. The kind of movie I’d love to watch. The kind of life I don’t lead.
And yet, here I am. In the bar. With the boy. Listening to the music. What exactly it means, I have no idea.
’m not sure what to make of Kylie. She’s not at all what I thought she’d be like. She’s not at all what she was like an hour ago. She’s not at all like anyone I know. She’s totally unexpected, wicked smart, fu
“Where you guys from?” Manuel asks us.
“La Jolla,” I say.
“Actually, I’m from San Diego,” Kylie corrects me.
“What about you?” Max asks Manuel. “Born and raised in Ensenada. I moved to New York for a year, but I hated it. Missed Mexico too much. Came right back to Ensenada and opened this bar. Been here ever since.”
Manuel still hasn’t served us the second margarita. He’s waiting for the water to soak up Kylie’s first. She was laughing her ass off, but she seems mellower now.
“First time in Ensenada?” Manuel asks us.
“First for me. But Kylie’s grandmother used to live here. And her dad grew up here. You’ve been here before, right?” I say, turning to Kylie.
“Uh, no. I haven’t.” Kylie looks like she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“What’s your dad’s name?” Manuel asks Kylie.
“Javier. Javier Flores,” Kylie says, softly.
Manuel’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Il Maestro?”
Kylie stares at him blankly. “Il Maestro? I don’t know what you mean. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Is your grandmother Lola?” Manuel asks.
“Yes,” Kylie says.
“Then it’s the same Javier Flores. Your father is Il Maestro. I knew him really well. He was one of my best friends. You must be Kylie.”
Manuel rushes around the bar and pulls Kylie into a hug. Kylie lets herself be hugged, but she looks completely weirded out. I’m kind of stu
“Your father and I grew up together. You’re like family. I can’t believe I’ve never met you!”
“Yeah, my dad doesn’t talk about Ensenada much,” Kylie says.
I have a feeling this is a loaded subject. Kylie’s body language has changed. She’s stiff, awkward, much more like the Kylie from school.
“That’s too bad,” Manuel says.
“Yeah, well, that’s my dad.”
“Your dad is a complicated man.”
Like father, like daughter, I’m thinking. Damn, I never should have said anything. I was just trying to be friendly. Now I’ve messed with the vibe. Wish we could roll back fifteen minutes, before I brought up Kylie’s dad.