From What I Remember

“You know what? Watch Star Wars. Don’t eat your di

Fine.

our dad and I had some crazy times when we were your age. They called us Los Buscarruidos.” “Troublemakers?” I ask. “Yeah, basically.” Manuel laughs. We’re walking away from the harbor and the main part of town. The crowds are thi

“We used to climb out of our windows at night and go to clubs in Tijuana, stay up all night, and sneak back in before our parents got up. We surfed The Killers during a hurricane. We even jumped out of a plane on our last night of high school. Crazy times. We were bad. Don’t try that at home, kids. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you all this. But it’s so long ago, I figure you’ll get a kick out of it.”

I’m getting a lot more than a kick out of it. More like a sucker punch. I’m listening to Manuel and wondering who this guy is that he’s talking about, because it doesn’t sound like my dad. At all.

“We know about getting into trouble on the last day of high school, right, Kylie?” Max asks me, pointedly.

“Yeah…”

I know Max wants me to acknowledge the rich irony here, but I’m too distracted by what Manuel is telling me. Was it Jake that drove Dad so far underground, his mother dying, or something else? I mean, my dad used to have fun, surf, and play professional soccer? It’s all pretty hard to get my mind around.

“I think the last time I saw him was ’97. Before that, I hadn’t seen him in ten years, since he left Ensenada. He came back right after your grandmother moved to the States, to clean out her house. We had a beer and talked about his new baby boy, San Diego, your mom. You were probably only four or five at the time.…”

Max and I follow Manuel up the steps of a bungalow painted a daffodil yellow. There’s music coming from an open window and the smells of something cooking. The house sits atop a gently sloping hill, with views of the bay. Before we enter, Manuel stops and points to the rough blue waters in the distance.

“That’s Estero Beach over there. Your father and I spent most of our youth on that beach. Swimming, fishing, surfing. It’s one of the nicest beaches in Mexico. We call it La Bella Cenicienta del Pacifico.”

“Cinderella of the Pacific? That’s a weird name for a beach,” I say.

“It’s often overlooked for the fancier, newer beaches in Cancún or Puerto Vallarta,” Manuel adds. “But its charms will suck you in. No matter where I go, I always want to come back to Estero.”

I stare out at the jagged blue waves. They do look inviting.

“Ready to go in?” Manuel asks.

“Yep,” I say. Ready or not, here I go.

Manuel opens the door and goes inside.

I start to follow after Manuel, but Max pulls me back. “You good?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’m just sorry you got dragged into this whole thing. Yet another crazy situation I’ve managed to find for us.”

“You’ve got a gift, Flores.”

“I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m digging this.”

“Okay. Thanks. It’s just…weird that you’re here with me.”

“I know. But I’m glad I am. Manuel is awesome. And I’m psyched to hang here for a while. I just…want to make sure you’re okay. It’s a lot.” Max puts his hand on my shoulder. “If you want to leave, just say the word, okay?”

“Yeah and…thanks again, Max.” How weird to be thanking Max Langston twice in the span of thirty seconds.

We step inside, and immediately we are swarmed by people. Young, old, there’s even a guy in a wheelchair and a tiny baby in a bassinet. It seems like the whole town is here, cradle to grave.

“Kylie Flores. Javier’s daughter. Dios mío, you are gorgeous! Like a movie star!” says a tall, slender woman.

I blush sixteen shades of red. Max’s eyes must be rolling so far back he can see out the other side of his head. A movie star? She’s the one who looks like a movie star, with her thick mane of jet-black superstraight hair that frames her perfectly well-defined features. I would give a kidney for hair like that. Manuel’s arm rests protectively around her waist.

“This is Carmela, my wife. She knew Javier as well. We all went to school together,” Manuel tells me.

“We miss your dad so much. You must tell him to come visit,” Carmela says.

Carmela pulls me into a tight hug. I’m having a little trouble adjusting to all this affection and attention. It’s not normally where I reside.

“Il Maestro’s daughter. It is an honor,” says a man in a blue suit.

“You have your father’s eyes,” says an older woman with skin like bark. “Let’s hope you didn’t inherit his mischief-making.”

“No worries there. Kylie’s a good girl,” Max offers.

Because I’m the most neurotic person in the world, I will worry about the veiled significance of Max’s comments for days to come. Does he mean that in a bad way? A good way?

“And what is your boyfriend’s name?” Carmela asks me.

“Oh, no. He’s not—”

“I’m Max.” Max shakes Carmela’s hand. “Thanks for having us over.”

I’m glad someone is equipped to deal in this hall of mirrors, because I’m having trouble putting together nouns and verbs. Three adorable children appear at my side, two little boys and a girl. They tug on my sleeve.

“Do you want to play ball?” asks a small boy who looks like a mini Manuel.

“No. She’s going to play dolls with me,” declares the prepubescent girl.

“You are a serious celebrity,” Max whispers. His lips graze my ear ever so gently, sending a shiver down my spine. I start to giggle, partly out of nerves, partly out of a sense of the absurd. I’ve just dragged the hottest boy in school to a BBQ in Ensenada to meet my father’s old friends. On the last night of school. It’s so not what Max had in mind for tonight.

“What’s so fu

“Nothing, I’m just…really happy to be here. And a little nervous,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you all,” I a

“It’s cool. This is going to be fun,” Max whispers. “More interesting than a high school house party. C’mon, where would you rather be?”

He’s right. This is bound to be interesting. Max manages to put me at ease the way so few people can. It’s bizarre. My nerves settle. I smile at everyone.

“We’re honored to have you and Max join us today,” Carmela says. “Move away, everyone. Give them a little room to breathe. Ay yi yi.”

Carmela leads us through the house, which is decorated with wicker furniture and plastered with family photos, and into the backyard. It’s lush with flowers, potted plants, and bougainvillea. There’s a clear view of the water. Several picnic tables with colorful tablecloths are piled high with plates of food. Paper lanterns are strung from the trees. It’s lovely out here. I wouldn’t mind settling in for a nice long holiday.

From the table, Manuel grabs a pitcher full of a deep red juice. He fills a number of goblets, and he and Carmela hand them out to everyone. Now that I’m getting a good look at the crowd, I realize it’s not quite as overwhelming as I thought. Maybe only about thirty people or so.