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“I haven’t seen your father in years. He’s only been back a few times since he moved to the States. How is he?”
“Um, he’s good, I guess. Why did you call him Il Maestro?”
“That was his soccer nickname.”
“Soccer?”
“You know, because he was such a virtuoso,” Manuel tells Kylie, as if this will suddenly jolt her memory.
“My dad doesn’t play soccer.”
“Are you messing with me? Your dad was one of the greatest soccer players to ever come out of Ensenada.” Manuel doesn’t seem to believe Kylie. He thinks she’s bullshitting him. I’m pretty sure she’s not. “You really don’t know about your dad?” Manuel asks, the disbelief hanging awkwardly in the air.
“No. He’s never said anything, nor has my mother.” Kylie looks kind of stricken.
“Wow. Okay.…” Manuel looks thrown. I am too. “When he was younger, he was a soccer hero. He played in the World Cup in 1982. Kicked a few wi
The World Cup? An MVP? That’s some big stuff to keep hidden. We did not need another curveball. This day seems to have a mind of its own.
“Maybe we could get those chips?” I say to Manuel.
“Sure thing.”
As Manuel grabs some chips, none of us say anything for a minute or two. Manuel watches Kylie out of the corner of his eye. I’m keeping an eye on her as well. I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. I want to find a way in, but I’m not sure how. It feels like she’s shutting down.
Manuel places the chips and salsa in front of us.
“I’m sorry if I’ve said too much. I was so excited to meet Javier’s daughter, and I figured you would have known about his past. I’m surprised your dad never talks about soccer.”
“My dad doesn’t talk about much. Period.”
Manuel looks like he’s about to say something else, when his cell rings. He picks it up and goes in the back to talk.
I turn to Kylie. “You okay?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this.”
“It blows.”
I instantly regret my clumsy reply. I want to say more to make her feel better. But this isn’t really my thing, propping people up. That’s Charlie’s job. It’s why I like him by my side. I could use him here right about now.
Kylie looks like she’s about to cry. She deserves better than me, sitting silently next to her, racking my brain for some words of comfort.
“It’s embarrassing,” Kylie says.
“I’m sure some stranger in a bar could tell me a lot of crap about my dad that would surprise the hell out of me.”
Kylie smiles, which makes me feel a little less lame.
“Before he got sick,” I say, “he was never really around, and I was so caught up in my own stupid stuff, I never asked him questions about himself.”
Kylie’s listening, taking it in. Maybe I can help in my own feeble way.
“This is kind of huge,” she says. “It’s freaky. I mean, a soccer hero? I’ve never even seen him hold a ball. What else isn’t he telling me?”
“I’m sure he’s got his reasons. You can ask him about it when you get back.”
“He probably won’t answer. He’s like that.”
Manuel is back. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. I just assumed you knew all of this.”
“Yeah, that would make sense. That I would know that about my dad.”
“Tell you what: why don’t you guys come to my house. We’re having a late afternoon barbecue, in celebration of St. John the Baptist. It’s probably getting started about now. I’ll take you over there and we’ll show you how we party, Ensenada style. Maybe I can dig up some old pictures from your father’s glory days.”
“We’re getting a ride back to the States in a little while. So we’ll be gone by di
And then Kylie looks at Manuel and says, “Thanks. We’d love to come.”
She turns to me. “We can go for a little bit, right? Will won’t be here for at least two or three hours.”
“Yeah, sure.”
This girl is a total mystery.
ad is staring at me as he drinks his second beer. He’s not saying anything and neither am I. I don’t know what to say. I’m not happy. I wish I were. I like being happy. People can get frustrated with me. I don’t do what they expect, and that can make people like Dad mad. I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just that everything’s wrong and that makes it impossible for me to eat my di
I haven’t touched the pasta. Dad put my glass of milk on the left side of the place mat, not the right side, where it belongs. He put my fork in the bowl, not next to it, which is where it goes. And he gave me an apple. I don’t eat apples. They aren’t on the list.
“I did everything your mother told me.”
Dad is using that voice, the one he uses before he gets angry and leaves the room. I wonder if he’s going to leave the table and go to the garage, like he usually does.
“I’m trying here, Jake. Are you listening to me?”
Of course I’m listening to him. No one else is talking.
I wish Kylie were here. She would have done it right. She knows what I like. She doesn’t get mad at me.
Kylie hasn’t come home yet. She’s late. Really late. That makes it even harder to be happy. I like seeing Kylie and talking to her about my day. We learned about the Trojan horse in school today. I wanted to tell Kylie about it. It was a big wooden horse that the Greeks built. They hid inside it and entered the city of Troy and won the war. I don’t think Dad would be interested, so I’m not going to say anything to him. I’ll just wait to tell Kylie later. I hope she comes home soon.
When Kylie didn’t come home after school, I told Mom to go to work and leave me alone until Dad got here. It was only ten minutes. At first she didn’t want to do it. She never leaves me alone. I knew I would be okay all by myself for ten minutes. And I was. I took off all my clothes and ran around the house. I went from room to room. It was so quiet, like being underwater. I like the feel of the smooth carpet under my feet and the cool air on my body. It was the first time I’ve ever been alone in the house. It wasn’t scary, it was fun. I think Mom is afraid I’ll do something stupid. I’m not stupid. Kylie knows that.
Mom told me Kylie was still at school. She had to stay late for something. It’s Thursday. She’s usually done with Advanced Chemistry by two forty and then home by four. When Dad came home he didn’t seem very happy to see me. He was angry that I was naked and he made me put my clothes on. I think I make Dad feel sad.
“Why don’t you eat the apple, buddy?” Dad says.
“No, thank you,” I say, remembering how they told me to try to be more polite in school.
I won’t eat the apple. Fear of fruit is called carpophobia. I don’t have that. They don’t scare me, I just don’t eat apples. I don’t like their shape. I will eat watermelon, though, and cherries. Fear of vegetables is lachanophobia. I don’t have that either. Fear of the number 666 is hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia, and I definitely don’t have that. I think I have neophobia, the fear of anything new.
“Okay, so what are we going to do about di
“I’m not hungry. Can I just watch Star Wars?”
“You always watch that. Why don’t you do something else tonight?”
“I don’t want to do anything else.”
I’m starting to get mad. I wish Kylie were here.
Dad finishes off the rest of his beer, gets up, tosses the can in the garbage, and grabs another one. He takes a long swallow and looks at me for exactly eleven seconds. Dad doesn’t understand that I watch Star Wars at least eight times a week, sometimes twice in a row. He doesn’t understand that I don’t want the apple, and that I want my milk on the other side of the place mat. He doesn’t understand anything. I don’t want to look at Dad anymore. I just want to watch Star Wars and wait for Kylie to come home.