Into the Beautiful North(58)

This struck them both as hilarious.

After a while, Atómiko said, “Is not big deal. Everybody in the Mexican army steals chickens! But I was illegal in San Ysidro.”

“Wow.”

“Mexicano army don’t like that!”

“Yeah. No.”

“You steal chickens?”

“Not so much.”

“The Mexican army, they teach us English. Why I speak so good? Army! And they no pay in pesos, Mateo! They pay in gringo dollars!”

“The Mexican army pays in dollars?” Matt managed to say, though his lips were completely numb.

“Hell, yes. In Tijuana is all English and dollars. They know where everybody’s going when they get out!”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Me, too.”

“But first, I’m going to think about Yolo in that T-shirt.”

“Me, too.”

They chuckled and sputtered themselves to sleep.



The girls crept around in the morning, doing their laundry in Ma Johnston’s little washer-dryer in the alcove by the back door. Nayeli and Yolo wore Matt’s T-shirts and nothing else. They were quiet because they couldn’t bear the boys looking under their hems. Vampi had found Ma Johnston’s tatty bathrobe. She was a sight—goth eyed and raven haired in an unraveling quilted puce wrap. The dryer banged and rattled, but it didn’t wake the guys. The girls nudged one another and laughed: Atómiko slept like he’d been shot in the head, and he had his right hand stuffed into his boxers. Matt was a lump on the floor. He had his head buried under his pillow. One-fourth of his bum-cleavage protruded whitely from his blue checkered boxers.

The girls were dressed and drinking instant coffee before the guys even moved.

Atómiko snorted, sat up and glared at them, rubbed his shaved head. He rose like a zombie and kicked Matt. “Pancakes,” he said. He staggered toward the bathroom, scratching his ass. He stood peeing with the door open. Nayeli went over and shut it. She shook her head. “What a pig,” she muttered.

Matt sat up.

His blond hair stood up all over his head. His eyes were puffy. He smiled like sunrise. Nayeli wanted to kiss him and climb under his blankets with him.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said.

She thrilled.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said to Yolo, who still acted angry with him over last night but secretly smiled. Nayeli studied this stratagem. How did she do that? How did she scowl and smile at the same time? How did she know what angle worked best when she glanced sideways like that? Nayeli’s face just broke into her crazy smile and made her look like a clown.

“Buenos dias, you goddess,” he said to Vampi.

Vampi didn’t waste time worrying about how to deal with Matt. She walked over and plopped down beside him and pulled the covers over herself. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Hello, handsome,” she said.

Damn, Nayeli thought. Just like a puppy!

Atómiko yelled from the bathroom: “Pancakes!”



?Qué son pancakes?” Vampi asked.

They were in the minivan, tooling down the street.

“Son jo-keks,” Yolo said.

“? Jo-keks? ?Qué es eso?”

They passed the Von’s market where Ma used to shop, and the library where she got her books, and they swung around a wide bend and were delighted to see the sweep of Mission Bay before them. It looked like Mazatlán.

Atómiko said, “?Los jo-keks son panquéquis!”

“?Qué!”

Nayeli said, “It’s like a tortilla, Vampi.”

Matt was laughing.

“You put syrup on them. Butter. You know?”

“No.”

“They put blueberries in them. Or chocolate chips.”

“Blueberries and syrup on a tortilla? Guácala. I will have huevos rancheros.”

They pulled into the little strip mall at the bottom of the hill. There was the Jack in the Box they’d eaten at ten hours ago.

“I been there,” Atómiko said.

“You’re a local,” Matt said. “Leave your pole here, though.”

They walked into the American Eagle diner. It was full of fat and happy Americans. Old duffers with white baseball caps cracked wise with the waitresses. The waitresses had stiffly sprayed hair-dos and frilly skirts. Paintings of rampant stags and soaring eagles graced the walls. The Camarones crew goggled. It was still 1965 in the restaurant, but they didn’t know that.

“Hi, doll!” a waitress whose bosom proclaimed Velma! said to Matt. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“You know,” Matt said. “My mom and all.”

“Hey—we were so sorry to hear about that. It was real sad.”

“Thanks.”

“Five?” she said.

“Yup.”

She snagged five plastic-covered menus out of a slot in the counter and whisked them to a corner booth.

“Booth all right?”

“Great, thanks.”

“Who’s your friends?” she said as they sat.

“They’re old friends from the mission field.”

“Oh! Missionaries!”

It was too hard to explain, so Matt just smiled up at her.