The Hard Count(90)

“I made pozole,” my mom says through a beaming smile.

“Like…from scratch?” I ask, my brow pulled tight.

“She poured it in from a mix. I watched her,” my brother says over my shoulder as he awkwardly climbs from the car with his crutches that were stretched across our laps for the ride here.

“Thank God,” I say to him.

“I know, right?” he chuckles.

“Hush, both of you. I could cook if I wanted to,” she says.

Our father lets her walk on to the door, but turns to face us with the trays of cookies in his hands and shakes his head to show how little he agrees with that statement.

Alyssa has the door held open by the time my mom reaches the porch, and she already has her eyes on the trays of cookies. The laughter spills out of the house, and I can tell from here that several people are inside. I see my family straighten their posture, my dad pausing, probably considering running back to the car. I step in front of them and press my hand on Alyssa’s head, scrunching her hair with my fingers.

“Hi, princess,” I say.

“Hi, Reagan,” she says, a small lisp slipping out through the new hole in her top line of teeth.

“Hey, you lost another one!” I say.

“I did!” she says, stuffing her hand deep into the pocket of her jeans and pulling out a crumpled dollar. “Toof-fairy!”

“Awesome!” I say.

I step inside, urging my family to follow. Nico steps up from a seat at the kitchen table and rushes over to me.

“I didn’t know you were here, sorry. I would have helped,” he says, leaning in and kissing my cheek chastely, moving quickly to shake my father’s hand.

“Here,” he says, taking the heavy pot from me. He carries it to the kitchen where his mom clears a place for it, and she pulls the lid off and smells the aroma.

“Oh, it needs to be stirred,” she says, pulling a large spoon from a door and stirring the soup a few times while my mother walks up next to her.

“It’s pozole,” my mom says proudly, as if she spent hours slaving over it.

“Yes, I recognize it. Thank you…you didn’t have to bring anything,” Valerie smiles.

My mom acts bashful, waving her hand as if what she did was nothing at all, which…it really wasn’t. I notice a pot on her stove and I step close enough to look inside, where homemade soup is brewing. Valerie’s eyes catch mine, and she winks. I smile. She’s going to keep this secret, and it makes me like her even more to see her spare my mom’s feelings.

Nico leads my father and brother around the table and into the backyard where more people are gathered, introducing them, always calling my father Coach and saying Noah is his son and a great quarterback. I’m sure Noah thinks this is all Nico kissing up, but I know better. It’s respect, his way of showing it. By the time they’re sitting near a fire pit on a small brick patio in the backyard with Nico’s uncle and a few of the neighbors, I see my father’s comfort level starting to settle in. My brother’s, too. I leave them, staying at my mom’s side and talking in the kitchen with Nico’s mom and aunt and Mrs. Mendoza from across the street.

While conversation outside seems to have evolved into the easy topic of football and Nico’s potential—inside is another story. The lulls are too many, and I can see my mom struggling to fill them. She’s complimented the house, which I know she thinks is sparse and old, but she’s bluffed well. She’s also praised the scent pouring from the kitchen, not flinching when Mrs. Mendoza said it was the pozole. It’s really coming from Valerie’s soup, but my mom sat up a little taller thinking it was hers.

“Your yard is beautiful,” I say to Mrs. Mendoza after another long moment of silence. She perks up at my approval, and Valerie and a few other women in the kitchen grumble.

“Why thank you, Reagan,” she says, turning her head from side to side, looking at the others.

“Am I…missing something?” I ask.

“Ugh,” says the woman at the far end of the table. “She was featured in the Southwest Gardener magazine last month and ever since, her head. Oh my God, I mean…I can’t even.”

“I have not had a big head,” Mrs. Mendoza says, which only ignites a round of laughter from every woman in the kitchen other than her, me, and my mom. My mom eventually bites her lip and giggles because it’s contagious.

“Let me just show you,” Valerie says, pulling open a drawer and taking out something that looks like a poster. She walks over to the table and unrolls a laminated copy of the magazine spread, holding the ends down so it doesn’t curl up. The main photo is of Mrs. Mendoza in her front yard with a pair of shears and a bright-green watering can. “Just look. It’s laminated. She made one…for all of us!”

“I only thought you would be proud of your friend,” Mrs. Mendoza says as she begins to get up. I can tell her feelings are a little genuinely hurt, but I also get the sense that she’s not about to get great sympathy from this group.

“Oh, Maria…stop. Sit down and just autograph it for me already,” Valerie says, holding out a marker, her other hand on her hip.

Mrs. Mendoza stops only a step or two away from her chair, her lips pursed and her perfect lipstick slightly smeared by her pouting.

“Are you just going to sell it?” she asks, holding a serious expression in her face-off with Valerie. The quiet lasts for a few seconds before they both finally break into a laugh.