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“This is wild, huh?” Max asks me. “These people are so psyched to see you. Your dad must have been way cool, back in the day.”
“Yeah, maybe back in the day.”
We all take glasses and follow Manuel’s lead, holding them up in toast.
“To Kylie and Max’s visit,” Manuel says.
Everyone drinks. I take a huge gulp and my eyes water a bit. The stuff is strong. It warms my throat as it goes down. It’s certainly not juice, whatever it is.
“Carmela makes the best sangria in Baja. But it packs a punch,” Manuel says.
I’ll say. There must be a bottle of tequila in every glass. My buzz from the bar is almost completely gone. I wouldn’t mind getting it back on.
“Yo, slow down, girl. We need to pace ourselves. This could be a long night,” Max says. “Speaking of which, we should call Will, let him know where we are.”
I borrow Manuel’s phone and excuse myself. It would be a nice reality check to talk to him, explain my current surreal state. I give him a call. But, alas, Will’s not answering his phone. Maybe he’s in a dead zone on the 405. I text him our new details and hurry back outside, worrying that I’ve left Max to fend for himself. But there’s clearly no reason to worry. Max has made himself right at home. He’s got a huge wonking plate of fish tacos, and he’s listening intently to a story the old man in the wheelchair is telling him. He’s also managing to toss a baseball to a little boy, in between bites.
“Hey, Kylie, come here.” Max motions me over. “You have to help translate. I think he’s saying that he used to be a bullfighter, for real.”
He slaps the old man on the back as if they’ve known each other forever. Is all of Max’s life this effortless? Can he just slip seamlessly into any new situation? This is what it means to be popular. Max has a certain comfort level with himself, with new people, that is deeply ingrained in his DNA, unlike me. He is relaxed, happy, enjoying himself, while I am uncomfortable, awkward, questioning my every move. I’m starting to see the pattern here—Max crumbles in the face of a real threat, but put him in a room full of strangers and he shines. I’m just the opposite, but I’m going to try to be different tonight, because it makes a lot more sense to be like Max. I mean, I spend a lot more time in fairly harmless rooms with strangers than I do in serious peril. My skill set is not so handy in real life. Only in the movies.
I turn to the man and ask him, in Spanish, if it’s true, was he a bullfighter?
“Sí, sí,” he says. And then he lifts his shirt up and reveals a six-inch scar under his rib cage. Whoa! Serious. Max and I gape at it.
“Holy shit,” Max says. “My man, I have never seen anything like that.” He whips out his iPhone and snaps a picture of the scar, up close. He shows the photo to the man, who smiles at the image. I didn’t know they had bullfighting in Mexico. It turns out there’s a lot I don’t know.
“This is fantastic, Kylie. I totally dig it here,” Max says.
Max refills both our glasses. We toast and knock back the sangria. Max’s body is pressed close to mine as we take a seat on the wooden bench. A gentle heat starts in my stomach and slowly spreads out to my extremities, some of it alcohol related, some of it Max related. All of it good.
is lips are devil red and his skin’s the color mocha. He’ll wear you out. Livin’ la vida loca.” I’ve got the top down on my Mini, and I’m singing at the top of my lungs as I shoot down the 405, on a bullet to Mexico. I’ve gone old-school homo with my playlist—Ricky Martin, George Michael, Boy George. I don’t normally do music this queer unless I’m alone, in which case, I change the pronouns (because, really, Ricky Martin has no business singing about girls) and blast the suckers. I can make out the border up ahead. In a few minutes I’ll be on Mexican soil. Arriba arriba. Not even sure what that means, but I like the sound of it. Mexico, get ready, ’cause here I come.…
I’m loving the fact that Kylie got herself into this mess. It’s unclear to me how exactly this all happened, but who cares? She’s trapped in a foreign country, in need of help. So Bourne Ultimatum. And so not Kylie, which bodes well for NYU. This is the kind of adventure a boy like me can only dream about—getting caught somewhere exotic-ish (it is Baja, after all, not Bali) with an Adonis like Max Langston. Talk about ending the school year with a bang. And to think, only a few short hours ago, I was so disappointed by the day.
I approach the customs booth and am relieved to see that the cars ahead of me are being waved right through. There’s barely a wait. This should be easy. We might even have time for a few drinks, maybe some guacamole and chips seaside before returning stateside.
I slow down as I approach the booth, expecting a simple hand flourish that will mean my entrée into Baja. Instead, the grim little troll in the booth takes one look at me, holds up his hand, and pops out of his cage. I stop the car, and his nasty face is at my window, leering down at me. Calm down, boyfriend, I’m not ru
I roll down the window.
“Hi there, big guy,” I say, realizing my mistake immediately.
A scowl materializes on his already unhappy face. Oops, my bad. Shouldn’t have called the little guy a big guy. He thinks I’m making fun of his size. I’m not. It’s just what I say. A peccadillo, if you will. Please don’t shoot.
I switch to downright obsequiousness. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m going to need to see your passport, license, and registration.”
His uniform is too tight and he’s sweating profusely in the unforgiving Mexican sun, which can’t be helping his mood. He’s looking at me like he’d love to make an example of me.
“Nooo problem, officer.”
I smile broadly at the hobgoblin. It has no impact on his sour mood. I know enough to check my snarky comments at the door. The border is not the place to try out new comedy material.
I rummage through the glove compartment and gather up all the necessary papers. I’m shockingly well-prepared for just this type of situation. This would not normally be the case, save for the fact that my sisters, my mother, and I drove down through Mexicali last year en route to Rancho La Puerta, the bougie spa in Tecate, where we were cosseted, coddled, and catered to for a solid seventy-two hours. Sheer bliss. We were also frisked and questioned at the border, as our trip coincided with a huge spike in drug activity.
I hand over the documents.
“What is the purpose of your trip?”
“I’m visiting a friend in Ensenada.”
I know enough not to say that I’m picking someone up and bringing them back across the border. That would just throw up a slew of red flags. Weirdly, my i
“Please step out of the car.”
What? Are you kidding me? Everyone else is literally speeding through the pearly gates, barely slowing down. I want to scream at him, Who, in their right mind, sneaks into Mexico? Seriously? But I bite my tongue.
“Excuse me, officer, I’m just curious what exactly I did?”
“Please step out of the vehicle.”
Uh-oh. We’ve gone from “car” to “vehicle.”
His rigid body stance seems to be saying, Go ahead, make my day. No interest, amigo. I’m all about keeping the peace. Confrontation gives me a headache.
I open my door and step out of the “vehicle,” which is the first time I realize how inappropriately I am dressed for the occasion. I could be in trouble here. I’m dressed more for a Scottish Highlands party than an altercation with Mexican border patrol. I am wearing a Marc Jacobs kilt (bought in the men’s section, but I doubt this will make any kind of impression on my friend here, so I choose not to mention that pertinent fact) paired with black combat boots (my guess is that the subtle juxtaposition of styles is lost on him). I have a jaunty little beret on my head, and a T-shirt emblazoned with a skull and crossbones. I shouldn’t be wearing this. For the second time today I am slapped in the face with the realization that my outrageous fashion choices may be coming up against the law of diminishing returns.