From What I Remember

“Thanks, Manuel,” I say. “For everything.”

“It’s nothing. I just hope you’ll come back to Ensenada. And bring your dad.”

“I’m definitely going to try.”

“You guys should get out there and enjoy the party. No need to hang around with a boring old man.”

“You’re the least boring person I’ve met in years,” Max says.

“I second that,” I say.

“Okay, now get out of here and have some fun.”

“All right, we’ll catch you later,” Max says, throwing his arm around my shoulder and leading me out the door and back into the crowd.

We weave up and down the streets, co

“So did you really hate the quote?” I ask Max.

“What quote? What are you talking about?”

“The Golda Meir quote. From my speech.” I’ve been wanting to ask Max about it, but I didn’t really feel comfortable bringing it up until now.

“No. I didn’t hate it. I was just surprised by it.”

“Surprised. Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess the quote felt pretty average. Kind of dull, predictable. I figured you’d have some obscure movie lines or some brilliant insights into our future. You don’t think like anyone else I know. So I was expecting something different, I guess. Does that make sense?”

I’m pretty sure he means this in a good way. Still, it doesn’t bode particularly well for my speech.

“You have to hear the rest of it. It makes perfect sense in context.”

“I’m sure it does. And I know it’ll be great. I’m hardly the person to give advice. I’m a terrible writer. You should do the opposite of what I say.”

“You think people can’t relate to the quote?”

“Look, Kylie, I haven’t heard the whole speech, so what do I know? It’s just, now that I know you, I bet you could stand up there without any speech and just ad-lib and it would blow everyone away. You’re fu

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly how I roll. I show up prepared for everything.”

“Whatever you say is going to be awesome. Don’t over-think it. And don’t take my opinion too seriously. I’m almost always wrong about stuff like this.”

“Okay,” I say. But Max’s words ring in my ears. Is it too stiff? Not relatable? I don’t ad-lib my life, so no chance that I’ll just show up and wing it.

We walk by a cluster of people standing on a street corner singing Mexican folk songs at the top of their lungs. Like mostly everyone else in town, they’re drunk. Oddly, they don’t sound half bad. As we pass, a woman pulls us into the circle, throwing one arm around each of us. It’s exactly what I need to shift the mood. I don’t want to think about my potentially disastrous speech tomorrow.

We all sway together, like trees in a breeze, as everyone continues to sing. Even though I don’t know one of these people or the song they’re singing, I want to be part of it, which is bizarre since I’m so not a group kind of person. I attempt to sing along, catching words and phrases here and there. They finish singing and the circle splinters.

Max and I wander back into the street. We’re no longer touching. I wish we were, but I’m not sure how to initiate it. I spend several endless seconds thinking about how I should do it. Do I just grab his hand? Or would it be more subtle to slip my arm through his and then slowly, gently, wind my hand down his arm until my fingers find his? As I’m strategizing, Max casually throws his arm over my shoulders, and once again we are co

We turn down a small alleyway lined with open-air stalls. Couples kiss in discreet corners. Stragglers loiter on stairs, sharing cigarettes. It’s quieter as the revelry from the main street dies down. A dress in a tiny shop window catches my eye. I stop and stare at it. It’s a deep fuchsia, delicately embroidered with yellow flowers, with layers of lace on the front, and tiny cap sleeves. The body of the dress hangs in tiers, almost to the floor. It looks as if it’s been fashioned out of paper, like an elaborate valentine cut by hand.

“You like it?” Max asks me.

“Yeah, it’s sort of fantastic. Tacky and chic at the same time.”

“Let’s go in. You can try it on,” Max insists.

“First of all, I don’t wear dresses, especially not one like that. Second of all, I’ve got practically no money; and third—”

“Slow down, Flores. You know what, I don’t care about number three. Or number one or two, for that matter. You like it. You should try it on.”

Max opens the door and pushes me into the store. There are racks of brightly colored flouncy dresses crammed into every pocket of the tiny space. The shop is packed so full of dresses there’s barely room to maneuver around the clothes. Purses and hats hang from the low ceilings and line the walls.

“Hola,” says a round old woman as she approaches us. She’s so short she barely makes it to my shoulders. “Let me help you find something, señorita.”

Before I can respond, she ushers me toward a rack of dresses. She plucks a lime green macramé number from the mass and holds it up to me. The skirt is speckled with pink pom-poms. Hideous does not begin to describe this frock.

“You like?” The woman peers up at me, hopeful.

I catch Max’s eye and can see he’s holding back laughter. I grope for something diplomatic to say, but what comes out is, “Uh, no. Not at all.”

Upon hearing my blunt response, Max bursts out laughing.

I switch to Spanish so that Max can’t understand me. I try to tell the woman that I’m not really a frilly dress girl, but she’s so delighted that she can speak Spanish with me, she isn’t really listening. She’s on a mission and there’s no stopping her. The little round ball of a woman is a whirling dervish as she bounces through the racks in search of the perfect dress for me.

I feel bad. The woman seems sweet and she clearly wants to make a sale, but she’s got the wrong girl. I don’t want to try any of these dresses on. I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress. I’m all about jeans and T-shirts. Dressing up for me means buying a new pair of high-tops. What am I doing in here? Oh, right—this was Max’s idea.

“C’mon,” Max whispers to me. “Just try something on. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t do dresses,” I say.

“Make an exception.”

“Only if you will.”

“What do you mean?” Max asks.

“You try one on. I’ll try one on,” I offer.

Max stares at me, trying to determine if I’m serious. I am. His eyes crinkle into a smile. He’s up for the challenge. I should have figured; he’s the kind of guy who’s up for anything.

“’Kay. I’ll pick yours. You pick mine.”

The old woman is pulling out dress after dress, one more hideous than the other. I shake my head at the choices, saying, “Lo siento,” after each one. She is surprisingly chipper, undaunted by the fact that I’ve yet to give her any positive reinforcement.

Max, meanwhile, begins to peruse the racks, checking out dress after dress.

The woman disappears into the back and returns with a plain white cotton gown. It’s lovely in its simplicity. Perfect for Max. “Sí,” I say. She smiles, pleased with herself.

“But it’s not for me. It’s for my friend,” I say, this time in English so that Max will understand. I’m worried she’s going to freak and kick us out of the store. Instead, she smiles broadly.

“Ah, St. John brings out la niña in all of us. I get a bigger one for you,” she says to Max, sizing him up. She retreats into the back room again.

“What have you got for me, Langston?”

“I think you’ll do the pink one in the window, Flores.”