From What I Remember

“No. It’s too…too. For me.”

“Sorry. Too late. I’ve made my decision.”

The woman returns and hands Max his dress.

“Can you get the pink one in the window for my friend?” Max asks.

The woman yanks the dress off the hanger and holds it up to my body.

“Yes. She’s beautiful, no?” she says to Max.

“Yeah, she is,” Max replies. It’s hard to tell if Max is just being polite or if he means it. Nonetheless, I turn seven shades of red.

Max and I head to “the dressing room.” A generous term. It’s more of a broom closet. There’s only room for one of us at a time, which is a relief. I couldn’t deal with us both changing at the same time, my big butt exposed for Max to see.

I let Max go first. He squeezes himself into the room, and after some grunting and groaning, he returns with the dress on. Max’s long, buff limbs look strangled in the form-fitting dress.

The old woman claps at Max. “You look so fu

“And by that you mean handsome and debonair,” Max says to her.

The old woman just laughs.

“What do you think, Flores? Can I go head-to-head with Will?” He looks absurd. Not like Will, whose lithe frame is made for the delicate lines of women’s clothes.

“’Fraid not. Will kind of blows you out of the water on the cross-dressing front. But you rock jeans and a T-shirt much better.”

“C’mon, you’re bringing me down. I am totally feeling this transvestite thing. I thought it could be my new look for UCLA.”

Max sashays in between the racks. His lovely tight ass is obscured by the folds of the fabric. Max’s ass was invented for jeans.

“I’m sorry, dude. You can’t work it like Will does.”

“That’s cool. I’m good with guy clothes. It seems really hard to walk in a dress. And if you add heels to this, I’d seriously kill myself. Okay, your turn.”

Max retreats to the dressing room, throws on his clothes, and comes back out looking even better than when he went in. How is that possible?

Max hands me the pink dress. I wrinkle my nose and start to protest. I worry it’ll look silly on me. Like I’m dressing up in my mother’s clothes. Like I’m trying to be something I’m not.

“We had a deal. I showed you mine, now show me yours,” Max says.

I can tell he won’t back down, so I capitulate and head to the dressing room. I pull my jeans and T-shirt off and shimmy into the dress. It fits me perfectly. I turn to look at myself in the cloudy mirror. Someone has written Ensenada rules across the length of it.

The bodice of the dress is tight. It emphasizes my A-cup breasts, making me almost look like a B. The cap sleeves hang off my shoulders just a little, framing my upper arms and giving the illusion of sculpted muscles. The low scoop of the neckline reveals my cleavage, and my instinct immediately is to cross my arms over my chest. But I don’t. I stand there and stare at myself, shocked that I don’t look as ridiculous as I thought I would.

I step out of the dressing room to find Max and the old woman staring at me. I feel exposed and excited in equal measure as I stand there awkwardly. Max doesn’t say anything for a moment, which adds to my insecurity, tipping the scales toward exposed.

“Yeah, like I said, it’s not really me.”

“No. It’s definitely you,” Max says. “You look incredible. Really.”

And then Max reaches over and pulls the band from my hair. My curls tumble out of the ponytail and onto my shoulders.

“You look like a rose in bloom, like fireworks in the sky,” the old woman says to me. Her eyes fill with tears. “So lovely. Bella. I have never seen someone look so good in that dress.”

Okay, enough with the bad metaphors and the hard sell. I’m kind of wishing she would just go away at this point. It’s getting embarrassing.

“Well…I’m going to change now,” I say, and turn away.

“No, no.” The woman rushes up to me and tugs here and there on the dress to adjust it. “This dress is perfect on her, no?” she asks Max, like he’s in charge of me, or something. Got to love the Latino culture.

“I’m buying it for you,” Max a

“No…Max, come on. That’s ridiculous. I can’t let you do that.”

I inch my way toward the dressing room. Max takes my hand to stop me. The old woman makes herself scarce, sensing that her sale relies on Max’s power of persuasion.

“Kylie, let me buy it for you. As a graduation gift. You can wear it tonight and then throw it away if you want. You’ve been wearing those jeans all day. You must be dying to change into something clean.”

“So, I’m looking dirty?”

“That’s not what I meant. I think you know that.”

Max is looking at me with such expectation and excitement in his eyes, I am loath to disappoint him.

“Okay,” I say, even though I am not the kind of person who ever wears dresses, especially frilly fuchsia dresses, or lets guys buy things for me. Tonight, I will be that person—for Max. And maybe for me as well. “Thanks, Max.”

“You’re welcome, Kylie.”

Our eyes meet. We’re standing close. Close enough so I can feel his breath on my face. I am transfixed by his full lips, his green eyes. His hair hangs over his left eye. I want to push it off to the side, touch my hand to his face. What must it be like to kiss Max Langston? Clearly, I’m not going to find out now, because the old woman suddenly materializes next to us, holding a pair of white cotton shoes—espadrilles with woven soles and strings that tie around the ankle.

“To go with the dress,” the woman says. I’ve got to hand it to her; she’s milking this for all it’s worth.

I take the shoes and slip them on.

“Perfect,” Max says.

Max hands the woman U.S. dollars, which she’s happy to take, and we leave the store. If I didn’t feel like I was wandering through someone else’s life before, now I really do. I’m in costume; I’m just not sure what part I’m playing. The obvious allusion to Cinderella does not escape my attention. I’ve got the ball gown, someone has slipped a new pair of shoes on my feet, and there’s Max, the prince. Two big problems with this picture: Max is someone else’s prince, and I’m so not a princess, it’s laughable.

As I’m burrowing into these thoughts, Max makes a beeline for a small plaza with a stone fountain in the middle. He takes my hand and drags me with him. A couple of teenagers emerge from the fountain, dripping wet, and wander off, laughing. Otherwise, the plaza is relatively deserted. A few old men stand in a circle smoking cigars. Several couples wander by, hand in hand. A man to the side of the fountain is playing the violin, and a woman next to him plays the cello. This is not mariachi music. It’s not even Mexican music, as far as I can tell. It’s mournful, sweeping, and romantic.

“Dance with me,” Max says. It isn’t a question. And it isn’t a command. His comment lies somewhere in between. He’s serious, not even a little bit joking.

I don’t say anything. But my eyes say, Yes, yes, yes. I’d love to. Right here. Right now. In the middle of this street in Ensenada. And, like we’ve known each other for years, like we have some kind of secret way of communicating, Max takes me in his arms without my ever saying anything. Without him ever responding.

My heart is beating so loudly I’m afraid Max can hear it. I put my head on his shoulder. Our bodies are pressed close. Every one of my senses is on high alert as we move to the music, slowly, perfectly in sync. I am completely transported. I can’t remember being happier than at this moment. I wish I could stop time just for an hour or two.

The musicians and a few other stragglers watch us. A couple wandering by stops and starts to dance as well. I take my head off Max’s shoulder, pull back and look at him. He’s staring at me intently.

“What?” I say, suddenly self-conscious.

“You should wear your hair down more often. And you should wear that dress, like, every day.”