The Book of Unknown Americans(48)

“So the car is sad.”

“It’s sad?”

“It’s lonely.”

“If you say so.”

“Should we visit it?”

“The car?” Then I realized what she was trying to do. See, she was smart. She was way smarter than anyone gave her credit for. I smiled. “I mean, sure, if you want to.”

We told her mom we were going over to my apartment, and I promised, as I always did, that I wouldn’t leave Maribel’s side the whole thirty-step journey from her unit to mine.

“Don’t say anything,” I told Maribel as we squeezed in the door to my apartment. As quietly as I could, I lifted my dad’s car keys from the windowsill, clutching them in my fist so they didn’t jingle. Then I slipped back out and motioned for Maribel to follow me. The two of us were outside again before my mom even knew the difference.

I opened the car door and let Maribel climb in, then hurried around to the driver’s side and got in beside her. The car was freezing inside and it smelled coppery and wet, like snow. I saw that someone—my mom, I assumed—had hung a rosary over the stem of the rearview mirror.

Maribel skimmed her hand across the bumpy, faded leather on the dash.

“My dad always wanted a car,” I said. “Since he was a kid. But he had a donkey instead.”

“A donkey?”

“He named it Carro.”

Maribel laughed.

“Yeah, I know. A donkey named Car. How dumb.”

“Your dad is funny.”

“Not really,” I said. I slid my hands around the steering wheel. When my foot accidentally rubbed the brake, the sole of my sneaker squeaked against the ridges of the pedal.

“Do you know how to drive?” Maribel asked.

“Pretty much,” I said. “I took driver’s ed last marking period, so I have my permit, but I haven’t done the exam for my actual license yet. My friend William did it, though, and he passed it no problem, so it can’t be that hard. The only thing I’m worried about is parallel parking, but I probably won’t ever have to parallel park unless I go to Philly or D.C. or something. I don’t know. The driver’s ed teacher, Mr. Baker, always made us drive by his house so he could feed his dog. Every year on mischief night, his house gets egged and he complains to the principal about it, but it’s like, duh, if you didn’t take kids to your house all the time, no one would know where you lived and it wouldn’t happen. He’s kind of stupid.”

“You talked for a long time.”

“I did?”

“It was like hours.”

“No way. Not even close.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“What? You don’t mind me?” I wanted to see what she’d say, but she just blushed.

“I like this car,” she said. “It’s very cool.”

She grazed her fingertips across the center console, her nails scraping the hard plastic. I watched the delicate round bone at her wrist twist back and forth and felt blood pounding in my ears.

I took a quick look out the windows and in the rearview mirror to see if anyone was watching. Earlier, I thought I’d heard a door shut, but when I looked now, the coast was clear. I didn’t know how much time I would have before either her mom or my mom came storming out, looking for us. I was getting all heated up even though it was cold as hell in that car. I unzipped my coat.

“Mayor?” Maribel said.

“Yeah?” I held my breath.

“I feel like you’re the only person who … sees … me.”

“Maybe everyone else just needs glasses,” I said, attempting a joke, but it fell flat, and I squeezed my hands around the steering wheel until my skin pulled so tight I thought it would flare off at my knuckles.

I turned to her. Ever since the first time, kissing her again was all I’d wanted to do. Be chill, I told myself. It’s nothing. It’s just— I closed my eyes and leaned across the console until my mouth found hers. I put one hand on her shoulder, on her rubbery coat, gripping the fabric in my fist. Her nose brushed my cheek, and the wool from her scarf tickled my chin. After a few seconds, I slid my tongue into her mouth, shocked by the feel of her seashell teeth and then by the wetness of her tongue as it touched mine. I moved my hand to her neck, her skin hot and soft, and holding her like that, my heart raced. Forget it: my heart was doing laps and hurdles and high jumps and I swear the f*cking pole vault. My pants got tight. I could sense it, but I didn’t care. We just kept kissing, my hand under her scarf. And then my pants were damp and warm. I pulled back. I threw my hands over my crotch and angled my body away from her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

And, man, if that wasn’t the truth.





Nelia Zafón


I am Boricua loud and proud, born and raised in Puerto Rico until I told my mami in 1964, the year I turned seventeen, that I wanted to live in New York City and dance on Broadway. My mami put up one hell of a fight. You are only seventeen! You don’t have any money! ?Estás más perdido que un juey bizco! All of that. But I had a dream that I was going to be the next Rita Moreno. I was going to be a star. I told my mami, You can look for me in the movies! And I left.