Into the Beautiful North(8)

“Look at that,” Yolo said. “They never make it out.”

“That’s us,” Nayeli said. “That’s Mexico.”

“Don’t let your aunt hear you say that,” Yolo warned.

They shuffled their feet along the bottom, stirring bright white clouds of sand that curled like smoke around their legs. Suddenly, a huge crab burst out of the sand and scuttled along the bottom. The girls yelped and ducked under water. Nayeli got to the crab first, and she pressed her stick to its back, holding it down. She carefully pinched it from behind—keeping well away from its powerful claws—and pulled it out of the water.

She shook her head to get the water out of her eyes and said, “Look at that!”

“Hey!” Yolo said. “?Es embra!”

A female.

Sure enough, the she-crab had a thick girdle of eggs plastered to her shell. Tacho would be delighted. Crab roe made a paste that moved him to orgasmic delight when he smeared it on a tortilla and soaked it in lemon juice and green salsa. Nayeli tossed her in the basket.

“Don’t you feel guilty?” Yolo said. “Taking an expectant mother?”

“What, feel solidarity with a crab?” said Nayeli. Yolo was always simmering with revolutionary theories.

“In a way, she’s our sister,” Yolo insisted.

This was the trouble with straight-A students: they thought up positions and then thought up a thousand insane defenses for their instant policies.

“This crab is not my sister, Yolo. She is my lunch.”

“She’s no sister of mine—I’m not pregnant. This crab might be the sister of —” she started to say. Nayeli tried to think of a pregnant woman in Tres Camarones. “No sé quién. Who’s pregnant?”

Yolo snorted. She loved her ridiculous debates with Nayeli. They could talk in loops for hours on the merits of rock en espa?ol versus regaeton, or on the merits of fútbol versus beisbol. They left poor Vampi suicidal with boredom when they got on their little jags.

“Crab!” Nayeli shouted, pointing.

This time Yolo beat her. She plunged under and worked her stick. It was a small male, but a small crab was still a tasty crab.

“That’s a dozen,” Nayeli said. “Let’s take them to Tacho.”

“Let’s eat!”

In her atrocious English, Nayeli said, “Oh yeah, baby!”

As they waded to shore, she said, “But who’s pregnant? Seriously. I can’t think of anybody.”

Yolo thought.

They came out of the water, each of them holding a handle of the basket.

Yolo shrugged.

“I can’t think of anybody, either,” she said.



They squatted and gobbled their crabs, the women and Tacho. The shrimpers and boys sat at the far end of the lagoon, eating beans wrapped in tortillas and minding their own business. Occasionally, Tacho whistled, and one of the boys came running to open beer bottles and bring more crabs from the aromatic pot. La Osa made Tacho surrender three fat crabs to the boys so they could eat some, too. La Osa reminded herself of Benito Juárez at moments like that. She basked in affection for herself.

Nayeli waited for an opportune moment to ask the ladies, “Who’s pregnant?”

“Not me,” said Tacho.

They threw napkins and crab claws at him.

“Do you mean among us here?” La Osa said, patting her gut. “Because it’s a little late for my comadres and me!” The older women chuckled. “You’d better not be trying to tell us anything,” she warned. “You’d better not.” She shook a crab leg at Nayeli.

La Osa finished another beer. Tacho hustled to fetch a fresh one and fished out a 7 Up for himself.

“Siete Oop,” he announced.

“Why do you ask?” Aunt Irma finally said.

“When was Tres Camarones ever without babies?” Nayeli asked. “What an odd thing.”

“Excuse me, girlfriends,” Tacho interrupted. “You need men to make babies.”

The old women nodded.

“What?” Nayeli said.

“Men,” said Tacho.

“What are you talking about, machito?”

“Men. Didn’t you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“All the men are gone.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Oh, really.”

“Jesus,” Irma announced. “Is there anyone sillier than a teenage girl?”

The women and Tacho laughed out loud.

The girlfriends sat there glowering: they couldn’t stand being called silly.

“All teenage girls ever notice,” Irma said, “is their own little dramas. They’re idiots.” She used the graphic word babosadas, which denoted drool running down their chins but also suggested they were as stupid as babosos—slugs.

The girls were outraged.

“Are not!” they cried.

The women shook their heads.

“All gone,” Irma said, making a puff with her lips. “Blown away. Off to the beautiful north.” She took a swig of beer. “Welcome to the real world, children.”

Nayeli stared at Yolo with her mouth hanging open.

All she could think was: I’ll show you who’s stupid!